


Mistakes

by sebastianL (felix_atticus)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bad Decisions, Bisexual Neville, Character Study, Fourteen years after the war, Heavy handed parallels to today's political climate, Hogwarts, M/M, Previous Neville/Ginny, Professor Neville Longbottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-09-28 16:38:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 148,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17186567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felix_atticus/pseuds/sebastianL
Summary: Professor Neville Longbottom is on the verge of becoming Head of Gryffindor. If he has a summer fling before that happens, it won't affect anything that comes after, right?Right?A story about the road not traveled, refusing to bow down to dark forces, and finally learning that no one should ever underestimate Neville Longbottom.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome back, friends! After pummeling you all with the last story, I'm back with one that's less likely to leave you rocking in the fetal position, asking yourselves, "Why do I let him do this to me?" 
> 
> Neville Longbottom is one of my favourite characters in the HP universe, if not all of fiction. I think it's easier for most of us to identify with the boy who wasn't the chosen one than the child who was. Neville's a hero in his own way, nerdy about his passions, loyal to those he loves. I can't wait to share my version of him with you. 
> 
> As per usual, the warnings will all be up front instead of before individual chapters. This story deals with dysfunctional and abusive families, institutionalized homophobia or biphobia, the after effects of torture, the rise of fascism, and betrayal. There will be descriptions of violence, and cruelty. 
> 
> This is a complete work, with four parts. The chapters will upload once a day, and there will be a week long break between each part. 
> 
> Also, for previous readers, this story is set in the same universe as 'The Man Who Lived.' I'm not promising any cross over moments, but I'm not saying it's not a possibility. *cough*
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> _

The water rushes in again over my feet. It’s _cold_. I shiver but I dig my toes deeper into the sand. The water comes up to my ankles, then recedes, slowly, back out into the sea. My socks are stuffed into my trainers, and I’ve got those hooked on my fingers, and the bottom of my trousers are turned up. I squish my feet into the earth and wait for the water to come back.

            Beautiful day. Too cold for most. The beach isn’t empty, not at all, but if I look back behind me and count all the people out on the sand, I’d probably come up with a dozen instead of forty. People like me, used to more northern climates. When you spend the whole year in the Highlands, I don’t suppose you can be chased off by twelve degrees.

            I close my eyes and listen to everything around me. The surf, of course, that’s first. The slick rumble as it goes to and fro. A few voices in the distance. The gulls. I feel the breeze lifting the hair off my forehead. It’s peaceful here. It doesn’t feel like a bad thing’s ever happened in this place.

            Nostalgia talking. I know it. My great uncle would bring me here for a weekend every summer. We’d stay in the same hotel that should have been condemned, and we’d come down to the beach first thing, so early in the morning that it could still be considered late at night, because Algie wanted to swim when the beach was clear and the stars were still hanging on and the water was so chill it was a hazard. “That’s the stuff!” I’d hear him shouting as I sat on the beach. I wasn’t keen on going in the water. Algie threw me off a pier when I was five to see if I’d magic my way out of it, which I did not—I ended up in the A&E at St. Mungo’s and would burst into tears until I was about ten if anyone tried to take me near a large body of water.

            After swimming, we’d walk all through town and the nearby countryside, looking at the wildlife and the plants. Algie was an amateur herbologist, with a collection of plants that I adored and that endangered me near frequently as he did. We’d collect specimens, then we’d get ice cream at the little stand that’s no longer there.

            It was my favourite time, every year. When the Headmistress told me I ought to take a holiday, this was the first place that came to mind. Too right.

            I open my eyes with a sigh. A happy sigh. I have no problem being alone. Truth is, it’s sometimes a relief. I’ve had this whole summer to myself, and that might be the first time I can say that in my life.

            Time to head back to town, I think.

            I turn around and I haven’t got more than a few steps before a particularly aggressive wave suddenly rolls in. I nearly trip off my feet. My hand opens as I try to brace myself on the open air, and my trainers fall into the surf. My wand tumbles out of my pocket after them.

            I’ve grown out of a lot of things, but clumsy isn’t one of them.

            That’s quite all right. Worse things to be than clumsy.

            I collect my things out of the water, shaking my head at myself and trying not to smile, and walk up onto the dry sand.

 

Fostham is only a short drive from Brighton, but not as overrun by tourists in the summer, and it doesn’t have those big cliffs for people to take photos of. No, just the beach, and it’s only a kilometre-long stretch. I prefer this, and not just because I have memories here. It’s quieter than most of the bigger holiday spots.

            Which isn’t to say the town is quiet. There’s plenty of people out shopping and going to restaurants. The food here is excellent, which I did not expect. Muggle food—I sometimes have my doubts. There are a few street performers, mostly men with guitars who people walk by with barely a glance. I stop a lot of the time. I find it difficult to leave them money though, because I still don’t entirely understand the euro. Or any paper money, to be honest. I worry about accidentally giving away half my savings in one go to a 21-year-old with a very wispy mustache.

            I walk down the street closest to the beach. Far enough that I can only just hear the waves. I’ve been here two weeks, since the day after my birthday, and I’ve still two weeks to go before the school year starts. I’m not here every single day. More like a base of operations. I like to just walk around, having a look at the shop fronts. What’s being offered, what’s sensible, what makes no sense to me. Not knowing if that’s because I’m a wizard or if the object simply doesn’t make sense.

            My shoes and socks are dry and my wand is safe and sound in the inner pocket of my jacket. I stroll along with my hands in my pockets, checking what’s different since I last walked along here. That was only two days ago, so not much.

            I need to find something for Molly and Arthur. I’ll be seeing them in a few days, and I know Arthur will appreciate whatever I bring back. Molly’s trickier. She doesn’t care for Muggle things, but if I could find her a nice necklace or something that might be the ticket. Not that I have the slightest idea what constitutes an attractive piece of jewelry. Only they’ve been so good to me, all these years. Even after what happened with Ginny.

            I back up a few steps. I’ve just passed the barber. There’s a thought. I grimace at my reflection in the glass. My hair is longer than I’ve ever had it before, coming down almost over my eyes. Well, I mean, it _does_ fall over my eyes, but I keep it pushed off to the side. Truth is, I think the longer hair makes me look kind of cool. Of course, if I’ve thought that, it means I’m probably the opposite.

            No hair cut today. I keep on walking.

            The buildings here are almost entirely the same. White and orderly, with turquoise street lamps lighting things up over night. It seems so foreign. I’ve spent my adult life in wizarding areas, and everything is just—different. No two buildings look alike, and they’re not so neat as this. I feel more comfortable in my hotel on the edge of town. Not the same one as Algie and I would stay in, but close in character.

            I should think about going for lunch. It’s into the afternoon, and I just plain forgot to eat. I do have concerns over what my memory will be like when I’m old, if it’s this bad now—

            “Wormwood!” someone yells.

            What?

            I turn and find the voice, brow furrowed.

            Across the street there is a small group gathered. Right off I can tell it’s some kind of street performer, but he’s drawn more people than they usually do. I can only just see him through the little crowd, arms up in the air.

            “Wormwood,” he continues. “Known for its many properties, including the mundane. It will lower a fever and soothe a stomach ache. It’s also a powerful hallucinogen. For our purposes today, we’ll be using it for one of its lesser known abilities—it will enhance my psychic powers.”

            Merlin’s _beard_. The man is out on the street with—he can’t be—no. No.

            I can’t help it. I’m curious. I look both ways, then I cross the street. Standing off to the side of the crowd of a dozen or so, I watch to see if this man is actually a wizard.

            He’s several inches shorter than me and skinny. His hair falls down to his shoulders, black at the roots but the rest is a dark red. He has maybe the brightest blue eyes I’ve ever seen, which can’t be Muggle eyes. They’re all the more striking for the colour of his skin. What do they call that? Olive?

            He grins and points at the middle aged man in front of him. “I see you’re skeptical, sir.” American. Of course. Americans coming over here and ignoring every single rule. “Let’s see if I can change your mind.” He holds up a pellet—fuck me blind, that’s concentrated wormwood. He had better not—he’s popped it in his mouth. He sticks out his tongue, showing everyone what he’s done. He swallows.

            Oh, this is going to be a _disaster_.

            The—magician? Is that what this fellow is? He suddenly puts up both hands. “I’ve made a mistake. I’m seeing—I’m seeing Lucy—she’s in the sky—with diamonds.” The Muggles laugh. I have absolutely no idea what that means. The magician gives them another grin. “I only tease. So! You, sir. I am going to use my newly enhanced psychic abilities on you.” He pulls a pen and pad of paper from the inside of his denim jacket. Tearing off a piece of paper, he passes that and the pen to the middle aged man. “Sir, what I would like you to do is write a number, any number, on that piece of paper, and I would like you to sign it, to prove that it’s yours.”

            As the man writes on the paper, the magician glances at a little girl and winks at her. He snaps his fingers and a single spring gentian appears in his hand. He bends down and gives it to her. She is delighted. I want to know what his game is.

            Straightening back up, the magician claps his hands. “Now, sir, what I need you to do is put that in your pocket, away from where I can see it, and I will use the power of wormwood to read your mind and reveal what number you have chosen.” He sets his feet apart, like he’s bracing himself. “What I need you to do, sir, is to think only of the number you have chosen. Picture it in your mind. Don’t think of anything else, or the magic won’t work.”

            He and the man look straight into one another’s eyes, and I’m going to have to call an Auror! This wizard is using legilimens on a Muggle! It’s absolutely unethical, it’s a crime—

            The magician slumps and shakes his head. “Sir, I told you to think only of the number. Instead you’re thinking of how absolutely radiant your wife looks today.” He turns to the woman beside the man, reaching for her hand as the crowd chuckles. “Milady,” the magician purrs, and kisses her hand.

            He steps back, giving himself a shake. “All right, let’s try this again. Sir, you absolutely have to _only_ think of the number you’ve written. Nothing else. Can you do that? Let’s give it another go.” The magician screws up his face. “63—no. 147—no, not that either. -8. That doesn’t feel right.”

            He crosses his arms, studying the man. I’m trying to figure out how quickly I can get an Auror out here.

            The magician sighs. “You know what, to hell with this, I’m just going to have to look at your number.” He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a piece of paper. He unfolds it and says, “Looks like we have a Douglas Adams fan, because your number is 42.”

            He holds up the paper and there’s a 42 on it, and a signature too. The middle aged man’s face breaks into a disbelieving smile and the crowd claps.

            Oh—for pity’s sake. It was all just sleight of hand. Well done, Neville.

            “How did you do that?” the man asks, clapping.

            The magician shrugs. “Same way I got this.” He flicks his wrist and there’s suddenly a wallet in his hand. The man looks dumbfounded and the crowd is laughing again. The magician tosses him the wallet, then holds up a—is that a euro? Paper money all looks the same. “Hope you don’t mind, I took this for my services.” He drops it into a beanie on the ground.

            The little girl with the spring gentian repeats what they all want to know. “How did you do that?”

            The magician spins, then bows to her with a flourish, and says exactly what I expect him to. “Magic.”

            I put my hands in my pockets, trying not to smile. Muggles really are way too easily impressed.

            “Ladies and gentlemen and friends, that’s all I have for now, but—” He sweeps up his beanie and starts offering it to the crowd. “My newfound psychic powers tell me you want to show your appreciation for my talents with monetary rewards. This ability, it’s a blessing and a curse—thank you, madam, thank you sir—”

            I snort a little. He really came close. I was about ten seconds from calling the Ministry.

            The crowd starts to disperse, and the magician is all smiles until the last person walks away. Once their back is turned, he starts pulling money from his hat, straightening it and counting it out.

            Ah, why not.

            “I thought you were about to perform legilimens on that chap,” I say, and the magician’s eyes snap over to me.

            He goes back to counting his money. “That would be illegal.”

            So he _is_ a wizard. “Too right. I was a heartbeat away from calling the Department of Muggle Relations on you.”

            “Seeing as I haven’t done anything outside the law, that would probably prompt an international incident.”

            “I’m pretty sure you were performing magic in front of Muggles.”

            “If I was, it doesn’t look any different from any street magic in the world.”

            “You get away with that in America, then?”

            He turns those bright blue eyes on me with disgust. “You think I’m _American_?”

            Faltering, I say, “Are—you not?”

            “Christ no. I’m Canadian.”

            “Ah.”

            “You do know where that is, right?”

            I start to go pink in the cheeks. I can feel it. “Yes, I bloody well know where—”

            “I’m teasing you. Calm down. But calling a Canadian an American. Perish the thought.” He gives me that sly look he was giving his audience, and crouches down to put his things in a rucksack. “The queen is on our money.”

            “Queen of what?”

            He drops his head, picking up his bag and standing. “English wizards, I swear to God, you are all so out of touch with—” He looks at me and pauses. “You’re fucking with me, aren’t you.”

            I shrug. “Only because you seem to deserve it.”

            He lets out a single laugh, and pushes back his hair. “Suppose I do.” He looks me over, squinting against the sun peaking out from behind a cloud. “I haven’t come across many magics around here.”

            “Fostham isn’t exactly overrun with wizards.”

            “You’re usually easier to pick out. It’s the outfits.”

            I know what he’s talking about. Most witches and wizards never master Muggle clothes. I literally go into shops and ask them to dress me and just buy full outfits and only wear that outfit so I don’t make a fool of myself.

            “So what are you, regular born?”

            I just stare at him. That’s not…not appropriate. You don’t just— _ask_ someone’s blood status. Not in this world. Not after everything that happened—

            He must see something in my face, because he says, “Sorry, I forgot about that English thing of it being taboo to discuss anything personal ever.”

            “No, just—that’s not really—a question you can ask here.”

            “Why not? What, are you ashamed of being regular born?”

            “I’m not—” I am getting flustered. “What I mean to say is—I am neither regular born, nor would I be ashamed had I been.”

            “Right. English classism and blood politics. Gross.” He shrugs. “My family is magic going back as far as there’s written records, but that certainly doesn’t mean we’re special. Just inbred.”

            I let out a laugh and immediately blush.

            He smiles and holds out his hand. “You haven’t introduced yourself yet.”

            I’m answering and shaking his hand before realizing he hasn’t introduced himself either. “Neville Longbottom.”

            The magician arches a brow. “Neville Longbottom? Could you be any more English? What are you, a hobbit?”

            “A what now?”

            “Never mind,” he says, letting my hand go. “Baltasar Byquist. Canadian, so we are just super clear.”

            “I didn’t realize I’d made such a serious breach. Especially when you’re asking about my blood status.”

            “That doesn’t matter. Being Canadian does.” He pulls the straps of his rucksack over his arms and his brow creases. “Your name sounds familiar. Are you wizard famous or something?”

            I’ve never heard it described like _that_ before. And I don’t want to let on how he’ll know my name, not if he doesn’t already know. Everyone in magical Britain knows my name. It’s actually a bit refreshing to meet a wizard who doesn’t.

            “Ah, I’m a teacher up at Hogwarts,” I say.

            “So, yes, you’re wizard famous. What do you teach?”

            “Herbology.”

            Baltasar’s eyes clear, and he says sheepishly, “Wormwood.” I smile, and he closes his eyes briefly. “Of course. Look, it’s not like I actually take it.” He reaches up to his mouth and pulls out the pellet of wormwood. It’s completely dry. “I just like—authenticity. Where possible. And for the record, I do not perform legilimens on regulars.”

            As Baltasar pockets the wormwood, I say, “I didn’t figure you did, or else you’d be talking to the authorities.”

            “What, you’re going to tell on me, teacher?” I don’t know how to respond to that. Not to the tilt of the head, or the tone of his voice. Baltasar lifts his shoulders and says, “Well, it was nice meeting you, Neville Longbottom. Are you here on vacation or something?”

            “Um—yeah. Until the end of summer.”

            Baltasar nods, then says, “Maybe I’ll see you around, handsome.” He gives me a crooked smile and walks around me.

            I…

            I have no idea what to say. I don’t say anything. I just turn and watch him walk away, mouth slightly agape.

            It’s been quite a long time since anyone called me _that_.


	2. Chapter 2

Two days after I first see him, I come across the magician outside the cinema.

            Again, he has a larger audience than every other street performer in Fostham, a little over a dozen. I even see a man with a guitar at the back, who maybe thought he should eye up the competition, but now he’s merely enjoying the show.

            Pushing his jacket sleeves up to his elbows, Baltasar shows the crowd his arms. “As you can see, nothing up my sleeves. My hands, ladies and gentlemen, are nowhere near my body. There’s no way I could—” He jerks, and a mobile phone appears in his hand, ringing. He puts up a finger. “Excuse me.” He puts the phone to his ear. “I’m busy, I’m performing for an audience both fiscally generous and remarkably attractive.” He claps his hands together and the phone disappears between them. “Sorry for the interruption! Let’s try this again.”

            It’s kind of cheesy. I mean, it’s remarkably cheesy. Except the Muggles are just lapping it up. I don’t understand it. I know that it all seems impossible to them, but they get on their computers and can send someone a message in the blink of an eye across the world and they’re bored by that. Tell me how that makes any sense.

            “Let’s see what I can pull out of thin air.” A strip of tickets comes through his hands, and Baltasar says, “Anyone go to the arcade down the street?” A boy, probably the same age as my first years, thrusts his hand in the air. Baltasar holds the tickets out to him. “There you go, buddy, have fun with those—wait.” More tickets start shooting out of his grip, and he has to struggle to catch them all up. He starts piling them into the little boy’s arms. “I have no idea what’s happening here. None whatsoever.” The flood of tickets seems to stop, and Baltasar steps back. “Great! Have fun at—no, here we go again.”

            The boy looks like this is the best day of his life. People are laughing and clapping. I shouldn’t be so full of it. They’re having fun. Baltasar isn’t doing anything that a Muggle magician couldn’t.

            I think.

            The tickets stop, then one more puffs out into the air. Baltasar snatches it, then tucks it neatly into the boy’s shirt pocket. “For the record, I have no clue where those came from, and if the owners of the arcade tell you that a grown man played Dance Dance Revolution for five hours straight yesterday, know that it’s all _lies_.”

            There are some more claps. The adults look entranced. It’s perplexing.

            Baltasar steps back, raising his hands for silence. “And now, friends, for my final demonstration, I will do the seemingly impossible. There is nothing on earth more powerful than gravity. No matter the weight, this unstoppable force will pull a thing to the ground. But—” He lifts his foot off the ground. “Do that and the effect is broken.” He sets his foot down and raises an index finger. “Momentarily. What I can do, however, is use the mystical forces of the universe to defy this seemingly unbreakable law—and levitate.”

            I press my lips together. He can’t. If he tries, I’m saying something.

            Baltasar holds his hands down by his sides, palms out, and closes his eyes. He stands there a moment, as if he is removing himself from the world.

            Slowly, his heels come off the ground. He goes onto the balls of his feet, and then the toes of his boots. The crowd is holding its breath.

            His feet are almost entirely vertical. I swear, I see a few millimetres of space between his toes and the ground.

            “I’ll call the Ministry,” I say, my arms crossed.

            Baltasar drops back to the ground, then looks at me in consternation. “Would you look here,” he growls. “The fun police.”

            He’s not the only one irritated with me. There’s a small crowd of Muggles who look like they want to kick me in the shins. I blush a little, but I don’t regret it. He’d be looking at a fine if he went through with it.

            Baltasar gives me one more glare, then turns a smile back on for his audience. “My apologies, friends. It would seem I’m bound by a code I cannot reveal to you. Much as I would love to show you how to defy the bonds of gravity, I cannot today.” There’s groaning from the crowd, and Baltasar says, “Instead, let me leave you with this—”

            He looks at me and snaps his fingers.

            I feel something on my head. I look up and let out a yelp as something with claws starts scrabbling around up there, then there’s the flapping of wings. I almost trip trying to get away, barely catching myself on the wall.

            People are laughing and Baltasar is doing his bit where he asks them for money, and I’m trying not to die from mortification as I watch a pigeon fly off into the sky. Clearing my throat, I stand up straight and tug on my shirt, trying to not look like an idiot.

            Too late for that.

            A minute later, when the crowd has dispersed, it’s just he and I again. Baltasar sifts through the money in his hat, then gives me an irritated look. “Thanks for nothing. I don’t have nearly what I’d make with levitation.”

            “Yes, well, you just made a pigeon land on my head.”

            “I did not, I only transfigured a candy wrapper. You’re being dramatic.” Scowling, Baltasar starts to sort out his haul.

            Taking a few steps closer, I say, “You can’t be doing this. It’s coming close to Muggle baiting.”

            “The hell it is.”

            “You’re going to be arrested—”

            “For _what_?” Baltasar says in disbelief. “Did you see anyone leave here upset? Did I take advantage of anyone?”

            “You’re doing magic in front of Muggles—”

            “Street magic. It is all sleight of hand. Just because you need a wand and verbal spells to do anything doesn’t mean that regulars can’t move just as fast. You want to report me to the Ministry? Be my guest. I’ll prove in about five seconds that it’s all razzle dazzle. I learned all of this from regulars. Chill out, hobbit.”

            I can’t believe he’s getting aggrieved with me. As he sorts through his bills, I say, “You were about to _levitate_.”

            “Jesus, have you never heard of David Blaine?”

            “Who’s that? Some Canadian wizard?”

            “No—you know what, talking to you is like being in a malfunctioning time machine.” He finishes counting his money and lets out a sigh. “Damn it.” He looks up at me with determination. “Well, since you fucked up my payday, you’ll have to buy me lunch.”

            “Beg pardon?”

            “You came in all high and mighty and messed with my gig, so guess what? You have to buy me lunch.”

            “I don’t think so. If anything, you should be buying me lunch.”

            Baltasar barks. “How do you figure that?”

            “I just kept you from being arrested.”

            “You did not. It was just a trick. And if you think those regulars believed for a second that it was real magic—except for maybe the kids—then you need your head examined. They’re apparently brighter than you are. They can recognize a magic trick for what it is. Training, practice. And a lot of fun. So you need to buy me lunch.”

            “I’m doing no so such thing.”

            Baltasar inhales through his nose, then stuffs the money in his pocket. “Fine. I’ll make you a bet. I’ll do a trick for you. No magic, just a good old fashioned trick. If you can’t figure out how it’s done, you buy me lunch. If you do figure it out, I’ll buy you lunch.”

            “You’re just going to use magic.”

            “You’re just worried that regulars might be smarter than you. Bet or no bet?”

            I grimace. “Fine. Do your trick. But I’ll know if you’re using magic.”

            Rolling his eyes, Baltasar reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a deck of cards. “This—hobbit—is the easiest trick in the world. Literally any regular alive could figure out how it’s done. And you’re not going to get it.”

            He shuffles the cards, so fast I can barely see their movement, only hear it. He’s doing something with them, I’m sure of it. Baltasar seems to get that, because he sighs and slows down. Merlin’s beard, I’d never be that good at something so simple. He can pop those things around and from hand to hand without even looking. I tried to shuffle a deck of cards once. We never recovered the three of hearts.

            Baltasar fans the deck out, face down, and offers it to me. “Take a card.”

            I look at the deck. They all appear exactly the same, with blue backs. There must be some way to distinguish them from one another.

            “Pick a _card_ , Neville. It’s not that difficult.”

            With a _humph_ , I take a card from the left hand side.

            “Don’t let me see it, but look at your card.”

            I put my hand to the back of it, and lift it up in front of my face.

            The second I look at it, Baltasar says, “Seven of spades.”

            I drop my hand. “You’re _cheating_.”

            Exasperated but not upset, Baltasar says, “Tell me how I did it.”

            “It must be marked in some way.”

            “No.”

            “There’s a trick, then, in the way you hold it. Something so I subconsciously choose that one.”                 “No.”

            “You’re using real magic, you’re tricking me—”

            “ _No_. There’s no magic involved, and of course I’m tricking you, it’s a magic _trick_. Tell me how I did it. Tell me how those simple, slow regulars came up with a way to get past a superior wizard like you.”

            Stricken, I say, “I don’t think like that, I’d never think like that—”         

            Baltasar gestures towards me with the deck. “Then say you give up. That regulars are smart enough to trick you.”

            “It has nothing to do with Muggles, it’s you trying to get one over on me.”

            “Fine. How did I do it?”

            I hold the card up to the sky. “Can you see through this?” I ask, squinting at it.

“No.”

            Chewing on my lip, I shake my head. “I don’t think it’s real. I think you’re just using magic and you’re lying about it.”

            “You wound me. But I’m not using magic.”

            “You can’t prove that.”

            “I can, actually.”

            “There’s no way for you to prove it! You’ll just say something like, ‘a magician never reveals his tricks’ or some rubbish. It’s real magic. I’m not buying anything else.” I cross my arms, determined.

            Baltasar raises an eyebrow. “That’s your final answer? It’s real magic?”

            “Yes, it’s bloody well real magic.”

            “Wrong.” He holds up the deck so I can see the cards.

            Oh—niffler shit, you must be joking. Every single card in the deck is the seven of spades. Annoyed, I say, “That’s cheating.”

            Baltasar plucks the card out of my hand, returning it to my deck. “Don’t be a sore loser.” He drops the deck into the box and nods past me. “Come on, I want fries.”

            He pushes me lightly to get me walking and, with a grumble, I do.

            And I just realized that according to our bet, either way, we were going to lunch.

 

“So you’re a war hero,” Baltasar says.

            I freeze with a mouthful of chips.

            We’re in a little shop off the pier. They serve you chips in this thing of newspaper, but the newspaper makes me uneasy because none of the pictures move. Frozen pictures make my skin crawl. They just seem dead.

            Other than the newspaper, it’s a nice place. We’re on stools at a round table by the open window, so we can see people walking by, for the occasional gull to swing by and eye the food.

            Of course he waited until I took my first mouthful of food. The bastard.

            I chew enough times for it to be safe to swallow, then wipe at my mouth with a napkin. “I wouldn’t say that, no.”

            “Really? Because I went out with some people the other day and said, have you heard of this stick in the mud, Neville Longbottom? And they said, oh, you mean _war hero_ Neville Longbottom.”

            Blushing, I hunch my shoulders a bit and jab a chip at the curry sauce. “It’s not…I’m not…I was there, yeah. Doesn’t make me a hero.”

            “Uh huh.” He gathers his hair up in a messy bun, twisting it in place, before picking up his first chip. “Is that sauce any good?”

            “Yeah, it’s all right.”

            Baltasar coats his chip in it, then pops it in his mouth.

            He gags, spitting it back into his hand, then starts coughing. I lean back as he scrambles for napkins.

            “You—prick,” he finally says, mouth completely open, as he grabs his water.

            “What? What have I done?”

            “You’re going to just sit here like—did that not burn your mouth off?”

            I start to grin. “Do you not have curry in Canada then?”

            “We have curry, we don’t have this—fucking paint thinner.” Baltasar turns and tosses a handful of napkins into the bin behind him. “What’s wrong with just ketchup?”

            “You mean tomato paste with a heapload of sugar?”

            “Yes! It might rot my teeth, but it would apparently be better for my drab Canadian palate.” He pushes the little dish of sauce towards me with a suspicious look, shaking his head. “All for you.”

            “There’s the result of my nefarious plan.”

            “I bet. So? Professor, war hero—what else do I need to know about you?”

            “Please don’t call me that.”

            “I have to keep doing it now that I know it bothers you.” He nods towards my face. “Is that how you got those scars?”

            I’m—dumbfounded. He just eats for a moment before realizing that I’m staring at him. Baltasar waits a second, then shrugs, like he doesn’t understand what the problem is.

            I say, “You know, I thought this word only applied to children, but you’re impertinent.”

            He gives me a knowing look. “That’s a polite way of saying inappropriate, isn’t it.”

            “Yeah, it is.”

            Baltasar shrugs again. “I don’t have a lot of patience for preamble. Life’s too short. I was curious, I asked. So sue me.” He goes back to eating.

            I wonder what it’s like to live that way. I never know when it’s right to ask someone something. Most of the time, I’m too afraid of some social taboo to even try.

            Why shouldn’t I say? It’s not like I’m embarrassed by my scars.

            “Some of them are from the war,” I say, and Baltasar looks at me from under his brows. But like it’s just another topic of conversation. Not like he’s in awe of me for being _there_ when it all happened. I point to the little gouge that was taken out of my upper cheek. “That was Death Eaters, but not in a fight. I was in school when they took over. Detentions were actual torture.” I tap the one on my temple. “That one was the Battle. The rest—” I gesture to the other nicks that dot my face. “That’s just plants.”

            “Plants?”

            “Yeah. Look at this.” I shrug out of my jacket and push up my left sleeve. A light purple twists up my forearm from wrist to elbow. “That’s venomous tentacula. Dead useful for plenty, but they have a tendency to kill things if you’re not careful. I used to have a shop in Diagon Alley, and when I first opened, I was knackered one night and passed out in the back. Next thing I know, I wake up and the bloody thing was making for my throat.”

            Baltasar is smiling a little at that. “You should tell people it was from the war. They’d be more impressed.”

            “I’m not here to impress anyone. What happened is what happened.” Ask questions. That’s how adults have a conversation, Neville. “What about you? What’s your story?”

            “I’ve never been attacked by a house plant, so I don’t know that anything I say will interest you.”

            “You’re hilarious. How’d you get over here?”

            “I swam.”

            I roll my eyes hard enough that it hurts.

            Baltasar grins, then sits back. “I don’t know. I’ve mostly travelled, since I was old enough to leave home. I’ve been a lot of places. Every year, before my birthday, I ask myself, where haven’t you been? Where should you go next? I’ve never been to England before, so really, it was just a matter of ticking this place off my list.”

            “That’s it? No burning desire to see England?”

            “England’s just a place. Like every other place I’ve been.”

            I can’t help but feel a proprietary annoyance at that—England is _England_ , thank you very much—but I remember how touchy he got when I thought he was American. He’s got his own national pride. He might just be baiting me, like he has with every other word he’s said.

            “Are you just a wanderer? Doing magic for Muggles?”

            “More or less. A person doesn’t need much money. Particularly when you’re a wizard. I make what I can, work if I have to, and then move on.” He glances across the table at me. “Hm.”

            “What?”

            “When I say that to people they have one of two reactions. They look envious or they look like they pity me. Envy, I can live with, but pity—that’s obnoxious.”

            “What did I look like?”

            “Neither. Christ, I’m still feeling that sauce in my sinuses.” He blows his nose, then tosses the napkin over his shoulder without looking. It drops into the bin.

            “Do you not ever get in trouble? Performing fake magic for Muggles?”

            Baltasar mutters, “Fake magic.” He has a sip of water, then shrugs. “I’m not saying I haven’t been arrested. I probably have more arrests than you have scars.”

            “I doubt that. If that was true, one of them would have stuck by now.”

            “I’m very slippery when it comes to law enforcement.”

            “That doesn’t surprise me.”

            “International statutes are a fiction. Everyone says one thing, but none of them enforce it the same way. Definitions of magic are different all over the world. I go to a country where they do believe in witchcraft, am I breaking the Statute of Secrecy if I levitate? I’ll get picked up for it here and there, but the most I’ve ever gotten was a fine. I mean, from magical law enforcement. Regular law enforcement, I could have been beheaded in some places for sorcery, but I’m pretty good at getting out of a prison cell.”

            I lick a grain of salt off my thumb. “Can you actually levitate?”

            Baltasar scowls. “Not yet. I can do the trick, but I can’t actually make myself—” He gestures upwards. “At least, not non verbally. If I said _Wingardium Leviosa_ in public, then yeah, I’d probably get arrested.”

            I find I feel a little bit better about that. Only people I ever came across who could fly without saying anything—they weren’t exactly good people.

            “What?”

            I’ve been staring off into space. Shaking my head, I say, “Nothing, I just—I realized I haven’t seen your wand.”

            Baltasar stops with the chip halfway to his mouth. He sets it down deliberately, then folds his arms on the table and looks at me with amusement.

            I could actually _die_.

            Waving my hands, realizing it’s a juvenile thing to find hilarious, I can’t stop myself from protesting. “No, that’s not what—what I meant was—mate, you know what I meant, you know—” I take a deep breath, then elaborate, “Your instrument of magic.”

            His brows arch, and he’s struggling not to smile.

            Squeezing my eyes shut a moment, I say, “If you need me, I’ll be under the table.”

            Neville! For pity’s sake, think about what you’re going to say before it actually comes out of your fat, stupid mouth!

            “Just to be clear,” Baltasar says slowly, sounding like he’s about to crack, “you’ll be under the table. With my instrument of magic.”

            Balling my hand into a fist, I say tightly, “I—have noticed you do not use your wand to perform spells much.”

            Why does he have to look so entertained while I am _collapsing_ inside? And why does he have to look so fucking handsome?      

            Swallowing down his laughter, Baltasar says, “That’s because you’ve only seen me do street magic for regulars.” He holds open the left side of his jacket. A wand pocket has been sewn inside. A few inches of pale wood sticks out above. “Poplar, ten inches. Rake intestine.”

            “Intestine,” I echo.

            “Yeah, they don’t exactly have hearts.” His mouth crooks up at the side. “Want to show me your wand?”

            “It is cherry wood, thirteen inches, unicorn hair, thank you.” At some point in my life, perhaps a decade or so from now, I will have stopped blushing. “What kind of creature is a rake?”

            He grimaces. “A miserable one. But the whole family has ended up with rake cores, so there doesn’t seem to be any escaping _that_.”

            “You said your family goes back a ways?”

            “Is this where you interrogate me about my blood purity?”

            “If I did, it would serve you right for doing it first.”

            “The Byquists go back about three hundred years in Canada. Swedish originally. They kept moving west across Canada every time society got too close, finally ended up on the prairies where society just said ‘fuck that,’ and they’ve been there ever since.”

            “Where did you go to school?”

            “Home schooled.” Baltasar pauses. “After some short stretches at a few places.”

            I make a face. “As a teacher, I’m starting to get heart palpitations, thinking about what kind of student you must have been.”     

            “My grandmother wanted to home school me from the start, but Canadian laws—they discourage that. Once I was expelled from the second one—”

            I put my hands to my face. “Oh no, you were one of those.”

            “I wasn’t— _not_ one of those. It’s not like I went out of my way to be difficult. I sure as hell didn’t want to go back to the farm, but—alas. So my grandmother taught me.”

            “You’re close with your grandmother?”

            He lets out a bark that draws looks from some of the other patrons. Clearing his throat, Baltasar says, “Ah, I would not describe it that way. I was raised by my grandmother, and she was—a piece of work.”

            “I was raised by my grandmother as well.”

            “Let me guess. Warm and supportive and loving.”

            Now it’s my turn to catch some looks. I cough. “No. My grandmother is—firm in her convictions.”

            “Huh.” Baltasar holds up his water bottle. “Cheers to that.”

            We clunk our bottles together, and I take a long drink. I think my skin might only be pink at this point.

            “How long have you been doing this?” I ask.

            “The travelling or the street magic?”

            “Both, I suppose.”

            “About the same time. Sixteen, I was old enough to leave home, so I split. Started to pick up tricks and just kept going with that. I turned thirty-five last month, so that makes it, what, nineteen years?”

            “That’s a long time to…”

            “Be irresponsible?”

            I hesitate, then say, “Yes.”

            Baltasar laughs, then says, “Makes me happy, so that’s really all that matters.”

            “You don’t miss your family? Don’t have friends back home?”

            “What happened to that English reluctance to ask personal questions?”

            “I’m following your lead.”

            “I’d be careful about that. I usually lead with my instrument of magic.”

            I drop my head. “Never going to live that down, am I.”

            Eyes sparkling, Baltasar answers, “Not as long as you live.”

           

I talk a little about teaching. I can always talk about teaching. And when he’s not making fun of me, Baltasar’s actually a pretty good listener. He just keeps his lips pressed together and furrows his brows a bit, and looks at me straight on.

            I could talk about teaching for hours, but that’s when I see him.

            It isn’t until Baltasar says my name that I realize I’ve been staring out the window. He’s looking at me for the first time with concern. “Are you okay?” He glances over his shoulder, trying to follow my gaze.

            Across the street, a man is picking through some shoes on a table outside a shop. He’s middle aged, with black hair cut blunt. He’s wearing shorts and wellies.

            “You know that poorly dressed wizard?” Baltasar asks.

            “I’ve never had the pleasure,” I reply between gritted teeth.

            “He kill your dog or something?”

            “No. He’s one of those Magical Alliance pricks.”

            Like he can feel my eyes on him, he lifts his head and looks across the street to us. Holding his gaze, I slowly lift a backwards V. He grimaces, dropping the shoe on the table, and walks away.

            “He’d better run,” I growl. “Fucking fascist.”

            After jabbing a cold chip into curry sauce to the point where I nearly squash it, I realize Baltasar is looking at me with wide eyes. Right. I suppose I’m fairly even keeled until there’s even the slightest mention of those bastards.

            “Sorry,” I murmur. “I don’t have much patience for that lot.”

            “Which lot?”

            “The Magical Alliance. Have you not come across them?”

            “Uh…to be honest, I don’t really follow politics.”

            I give him an exasperated look. Everyone should follow politics. It affects everything. It’s important, it’s the world that we live in, especially when it’s people like _that_.

            “Next generation of Death Eaters,” I explain. “They just don’t have the courage to come out and say they want to destroy the world. Some of them were actual Death Eaters—that fellow, that was Alastair Leroq. He was a Death Eater, make no mistake, but he did some song and dance about being Imperiused and somehow got off with no time in Azkaban. Now he runs their newsletter.”

            “I thought you people had rules over here about that.”

            Scowling, I say, “We do, but these people—they’re vague about it. A lot of talk about keeping to tradition while being progressive, and that sounds all well and good, but the tradition they want to keep is separating by blood purity, and the future they want is the subjugation of all Muggles. Death Eaters, you knew where you stood with them. They had no problem saying they were evil. These people—they’re slippery. They’re smart enough to say all the right things. And there are people who are stupid enough to not see what they really are.” 

            “You realize that sounds a little paranoid.”

            “I saw Death Eaters murder children,” I say sharply. “I’m not being paranoid, I’m being prepared.”

            Neither of us say anything for a moment.

            “Right,” Baltasar says.

            Embarrassed, I kind of hunch in on myself. “I’m sorry, that was—”

            “No, you’re completely right. I’m sorry. One thing to joke about you being a war hero, another thing to remember that heroes usually see some fucked up things.” I’ve got no way to reply to that. The whole topic just makes me uncomfortable. Except he kicks me lightly underneath the table. “It’s only a mistake. And mistakes can be forgiven.” The way Baltasar says it, I know it’s something he’s said before. An old joke, or a family saying. He smiles at me. “So you forgive me?”

            When he smiles like that, it’s pretty difficult to not smile right back. “Suppose so. Even if you are a cheat.”

            “How am I a cheat?” Baltasar protests. “How many times do I have to say it’s a magic _trick_?”

            There’s a little chime, and Baltasar pulls a mobile from his pocket. He flicks his thumb across it, the way I see regulars do. He chews the side of his lower lip as he looks at whatever it is people look at on those things. That’s distracting. That thing he’s doing with his mouth.

            “Sorry,” he says. “I’m meeting up with some people later.”

            “You make friends fast. How long have you been in town?”

            “A few days. These are people in Brighton. I was there first, but there’s a whole hierarchy of street magicians there that I’m just not going to fuck with.” He puts his phone back in his pocket and cringes slightly at me. “Actually, I should—”

            “Yeah, of course,” I rush to say. Whenever people give the slightest indication of wanting to leave, I get this kind of—panic. This concern that I’ve kept them too long, that they must have more important things.

            Baltasar slips off his stool, tucking back a few strands of hair. “You said you’re in town another week?”  

            “Until the 28th, yeah.”

            “Awesome. Well, thank you for lunch, and my number is in your wallet, and I would love to count how many scars you have, primarily with my mouth, so—” He shrugs easily. “Give me a call sometime.”

            He walks away.

            Um.

            I’m frozen. I am actually—have I been petrified? Am I petrified right now?!

            I grab my wallet and flip it open, and sure enough there’s a folded piece of paper in there.

            “Oi!” I yelp. Baltasar stops, his hand on the door. I swallow. I feel absolutely helpless. People are looking. Lowering my voice, I hiss, “I don’t know—how to use that.”

            With a grin, Baltasar says, “You’ve got a week. You want it, figure it out.” I see his tongue flick at his teeth, then he moves out the door.

            And that just leaves me with an attractive man’s phone number.

            Blimey—does this mean I should get a mobile?


	3. Chapter 3

I pop out of space, landing with a wobble on the grass. Didn’t even keel over. Well done, me.

            I put my hand up and call, “Hello!”

            Arthur is waving cheerfully from the garden. “Hello Nev!”

            I smile, and make my way down the little path to the Burrow. It’s the same as ever. Crooked, overfilled, and the flowers are in full bloom. I hear an echo from high up. The ghoul is banging out its greetings.

            Arthur gets up from his chair when I come close enough. He’s almost bald now, and he only has a few red hairs left, the rest gone white. Every time I see him, I’m a little frightened. Every time he’s older. So are we all, though.

            He wraps his arms around me and gives me a good squeeze. “It’s been too long, Nev.”

            “It’s been a month,” I protest, patting his back, but I know what he means. I used to be here every single week for dinner.

            Arthur pushes me back by the shoulders, beaming at me. “Looking well, Nev.”

            “You too—ow!” I yank my foot off the ground, almost pitching over. Something bit me in the ankle, and I can guess what. Rubbing the sore spot, I can see a gnome go giggling off beneath a head of cabbage.

            Arthur says, “None of that, Chevrolet.”

            I look at him, trying to hold my tongue. I can’t; he’ll be in more trouble if I don’t. “Arthur.”

            “What?” He sees me looking at him and gets a bit sheepish.

            “Do _not_ let Molly know you’ve been naming the gnomes again,” I say, hushed.

            “I know, I know—they’re just funny little chaps, aren’t they. Well, come! Sit! Molly will be out in a second, she just—”

            “Expected me to be late,” I finish, dropping into one of the garden chairs.

            Adjusting his robes, Arthur says, “You do have a bit of a reputation.” He sits down, then smiles warmly at me. “Head of House, Neville Longbottom.”

            Flushing, I say, “Yes. No more of that.” I pull my bag onto my lap, lifting the flap. “I got you this. I thought you might like it.”

            Arthur immediately sits up straighter, taking the— _thing_ —into his hands. “Good heavens. I’ve seen these before, but I’ve never owned one!”

            “I thought it would be a good way to store some of your plugs,” I explain. Leaning forward, I point to all the holes up and down the— _thing_. “See how they’re all the right size for that?”

            “Absolutely right! You know, I’ve never had a way to display my plug collection. They’re all just sitting in a box.” He holds up the cable at the end of the whatever it is. “And it even has a plug of its own! You know what this does, Neville?”

            “It’s not just for holding plugs?”

            “No, you see—the ecclectricity goes through here, and it’s a way to conduct it all at the same time in one place!” Arthur pauses, looking quizzical. “I think. To be honest, I think it’s much better as a plug display. I can’t wait to put this up in the garage.”

            I’m so pleased he likes it. I’d give Arthur my hands if he ever asked for them.

            A window opens a few floors up, and Molly leans out. “Neville, sweetheart, I’m on my way!”

            I wave up at her, shielding my eyes. “No need to hurry, Molly!”

            When the window closes, I turn my attention back to Arthur. He’s turning his present every which way, studying it the way I’ll look at some new specimen.

            Pity to bring the mood down, but I should mention it. “I saw Alastair Leroq in Fostham.”

            Arthur’s face immediately goes from delighted to furious. He covers it quickly, but we’re of much the same opinion on the matter. “I suppose he’s free to go where he likes. For now.”

            “Is there _any_ movement at the Ministry? They have to shut these people down, Arthur.”

            “We’re trying, Neville, but they’ve not broken any laws—”

            “Merlin’s tits they haven’t—” I cover my mouth. “Sorry, Arthur.”

            He glances at me fondly. “It’s not that I don’t agree, Nev. Behind the scenes…there’s been a rise in Muggle baiting in England. A Muggle family in Cardiff had their home broken into and their dog turned into a…well, not entirely sure what it was, but it wasn’t friendly. The Ministry knows what they are, despite all their claims to legitimacy. However…”

            “Some of them agree with the MA,” I finish.

            It’s difficult to see that ugly, miserable thing move across Arthur’s face, but I feel it too. “Some of them have very short memories. If they’d lost children…they’d be singing a different tune.” Arthur rubs a hand over his head. “It’s hard, Nev. After everything we fought for…to see people forget so quickly.”

            I shouldn’t have brought it up. “It’ll work out, Arthur.” I smile at him. “Mark my words.”

            He smiles back, but there’s something sad there.

            The back door opens, and Molly strides out, messing with her purse. “Neville, sweetheart, this might be the first time you’ve arrived when you said you would.”

            Standing, I hold my arms open. “I know, I’m terrible.”

            I wrap my arms around her, and her arms go tight around my middle. I press my face down into her greying red hair and I smile.

            Molly Weasley. The woman who killed Bellatrix Lestrange. Pillar of the earth.

            She’s suddenly pinching my cheeks. “Neville Longbottom, Head of _Gryffindor_ —”

            “Molly,” I groan, pulling her hands down.

            “How’s your holiday?”

            “Lovely. I’ve found all sorts of things to take back to school. You should see this shrub I found—” Concerned, Molly starts feeling my arms, as if searching for injuries. With a sigh, I say, “Yes, Molly, I’m quite all right.”

            Arthur holds up his plug displayer. “Look at what Nev got me, Molly.”

            She gazes at it a moment with narrowed eyes. “Is that for storing your plugs?” she finally asks, and Arthur nods. “Well, isn’t that useful!” I reach into my pocket and pull out a small bag for her. Molly lets out a sigh and smacks me lightly in the chest. “Neville, you have to stop buying us things.”

            “I’ll stop doing it when it stops making you happy,” I reply, because I can see that she’s pleased.

            She takes the earrings out of the bag. “Oh—Nev, they’re beautiful. Arthur, look at these. Seashells!” She immediately starts taking out the ones in her ears.

            “You don’t have to—”

            “Don’t be silly, I want to look my best.” Molly puts the seashell earrings in her ears and asks, “Well? How do they look?”

            I miss something I’ve never had. “You look beautiful,” I say sincerely.

            She puts her other earrings into her bottomless bag, then holds her hand out to me. “Shall we?”

            “Yes, we should probably get going. I’ll see you later, Arthur.”

            “Give everyone my best,” he says.

            “Don’t burn the house down while we’re gone,” Molly says, slipping her arm through mine. A few seconds go by, then she looks up at me expectantly. I balk, and she rolls her eyes. “Snakes and stones, Neville, you are a grown man. I trust you. Let’s go.”

            I swallow, nervous as always, and I side along her across the country.

           

The truth is, when Ginny and I broke up, I thought I’d never see the Weasleys again.

            We broke it to Ron and Hermione first, then Molly and Arthur the next night. We did it the same way both times, holding hands at the dinner table, facing the problem the way we always had—together.

            To be honest, I think everyone was more shocked than when Harry ran off with Draco Malfoy.

            After we’d told Molly and Arthur, Ginny asked me if she could have some time alone with them, and I went outside. I’d loved the Burrow. I had always loved the Burrow. It was the kind of house I’d wanted to grow up in. Gran’s house, it was plenty magic, but it wasn’t magical. Not sure if that makes any sense.

            Only I’d never really been 100% comfortable at the Burrow. There was always that thing, that little niggling thing, that I had never mentioned to anyone. It was there, though. Even I, unaware as I usually am, knew it.

            I stood outside, watching the stars, until I heard the door open and close. I glanced back to see who it was, then went back to stargazing.

            Molly came to stand at my side. She said nothing, though. For Molly, that is exceedingly rare. I thought I knew what she wanted to say. What she’d never been unkind enough to say. I wanted her to know that I understood, though.

            “It’s all right, Molly,” I said. “I’m glad for you.”

            I felt her looking up at me, but I couldn’t look back. I thought that if I said what I needed to while looking her in the eyes, I might start to cry. I’ve no problem being a man who sheds his fair share of tears, but in that moment, I wanted to be strong.

            “I know you never wanted it to be me with Ginny. You wanted it to be Harry. You’ve been so kind to me, but I know that I’m not who you wanted for her. I don’t think it will ever be him, but—maybe the next person…maybe the next person will be worth her, instead of me.”

            I bit into my lip, taking a breath. That had been very hard to say. I was glad I said it though. Everything out in the open.

            “Is that how I made you feel?” Molly said, aghast.

            Surprised, I looked down at her.

            Molly stared out into the darkness, her shoulders rising up and down. At last, she said, “Your mother…you mother would be so ashamed of me.” Her face started to crumble.

            I had no idea what to do. “Molly,” I said, putting a hand to her shoulder.

            She grabbed me by the front of my robes. Her hand fisted into the fabric, and she shook her head at me fiercely. “ _No_ ,” Molly said. “No, just—Neville. _No_. I never—I never, ever meant to make you feel like that, sweetheart. Oh— _Neville_. Why didn’t you tell me you thought that?”

            “Because—because it’s true.”

            “No. Neville—oh, sweetheart. A long time ago—a long time ago, I thought it would be the two of them, because that just seemed right. But what a foolish old woman thinks and what actually happens is far apart from one another. You—you’re family, don’t you see that? With Ginny—” Molly swallowed, on the verge of tears again. “Not with Ginny—it doesn’t matter. You’re one of mine.” She nearly rocked me off my feet. “You’re one of _mine_.”

            I started to tear up. I’d managed to get through the last few days without crying, but it looked like that was about to end. “I thought you’d never want to see me again.”

            We both burst into tears at that. Molly hugged me so hard around the neck that I could barely breathe, bent down about a foot.

            She swayed me back and forth, saying through her tears, “You’re mine, you’re one of my boys, mine, you’re mine.”

 

I pause outside the door. I crouch down, untying and retying my laces.

            Molly waits for me, a knowing look on her face. The seashells are the size of her cheeks, scraping her shoulders. “Should we pop upstairs and have some tea first?”

            “No, I—” I pull my trousers over my shoes and stand back up. “Just didn’t want to trip, is all.” I move past her so I can hold the door open for her.

            It smells the same. Lavender. The Janus Thickey Ward always smells of lavender. They say it calms people down. I don’t know what it does for the patients, but it put me off lavender for life.

            Everyone looks mostly settled today. They are, by and large, the same faces I have seen for nearly thirty years. The occasional new face drops in, but not many. Some are sitting off at a table as an aide reads from a book. I see a head of thick blond hair and keep my eyes down. You so much as look at that one and he’ll never let you loose.

            Molly and I walk to the back of the ward, down the short aisle of beds behind curtains. Everyone’s has been cozied up, made to look as homey as possible. It doesn’t change the fact that this is a sad place. It’s a very, very sad place.

            Molly reaches the flowered curtains first, drawing them back. “Hello,” she says warmly.

            She goes to my father, who’s sitting by the wall, staring at a frosted window. He doesn’t notice when she bends down to kiss his head.

            I stay where I am. I’d like to say that I feel like a child again, and I’m nervous, and that’s why I don’t go to them. That’s not true though. This is all something I’ve done before. Many times. I don’t move because it is not a thing that ever changes.

            Molly goes to Mum, pushing her hair back with both hands so that she can kiss her forehead. “Hello, Alice.” Molly sits down beside my mother on the bed, already reaching into her bag. “I brought your favourite brush.”

            I take a chair from my father’s bedside, and put it down between the two beds. Threading my fingers together, I sit with my feet pressed together.

            It used to be that I’d visit my parents with my gran. For a long time, I would go by myself. I’d sit, and I’d talk, and I’d hope.

            I only come now if Molly wants to pop in.

            Molly goes about gently brushing my mum’s white hair. She’s talking about the grandkids. She talks without any expectation of hearing something back.

            My parents have never spoken to me. I have never heard either of them say a single word.

            Occasionally, Molly glances at me, but I stay quiet. When it looks like she needs it, I give her a little smile. I’m all right. It’s not easy, being here, but there’s worse things. In theory.

            When Mum’s hair is all straight and shiny with magic, Molly tucks it back behind her ears. “There. Pretty as a picture, Alice.” She puts the brush into her bag, then gathers herself together. “Neville, I’m going to get us some tea. Give you a chance to catch up. Does that sound all right?”

            “Of course—” Mum gets up and shuffles over to me. I wait until she’s at my side. With trembling fingers, she plucks at my shoulder. I smile slightly, and pull a candy from my pocket. “Here you go, Mum.”

            Without looking at me, she turns back to the bed, and when she sits down, her back is to me.

            Molly takes a deep breath, then gives me a bracing smile. “Be right back, love.”

            I nod, and Molly leaves us, drawing the curtains closed after her. She’ll probably leave us alone for a half hour. Most of the time, when she goes to get tea, she intentionally runs into Gilderoy. Then she has a legitimate reason to give my parents and I privacy.

            I could just sit here and not say anything. It doesn’t matter if I say a single word.

            Only that’s not who I am. I’ll talk, because it doesn’t matter if they’re only shells. I’ll talk because that’s the kind of person I am. Dad leaves his chair and comes to sit on the bed, gazing at the wall. Both my parents are faced away from me, and each other.

            “School starts soon,” I say. “It will be my third year. And I’ll be Head of Gryffindor. I know I told you this last month, but…well, that’s what’s happening. I’ve been having a very happy holiday. I’ve been down in Fostham. You won’t remember that, but you used to go there. A long time ago. It’s very nice.”

            I talk to myself. I don’t look at their faces.

            “Everything is going fine. I’ve met some people on holiday who are quite nice. One who’s a bit of a prick, but he’s all right as well. Ron and Hermione, they’re off on holiday on the continent. They asked if I wanted them to come back for my birthday, but it seemed silly, them being so far away. They’re still not talking to Harry. Or Harry’s still not talking to them. Haven’t quite worked out which way that’s going. They’ll all be friends again. I think. Harry has asked if I’d like to come visit sometime. To be honest, I don’t really know how I feel about that. I’m happy he’s happy, and Draco certainly seemed to turn out all right…only it’s strange. It’s still very strange.”

            Taking out my wand, I spell away some of the dirt beneath my nails. Hazards of being a herbologist. Every time you think you’ve gotten clean, you’re proven wrong.

            I just work on that a little while, sitting in silence. In my twenties, I had a lot to say to my parents. Promises. Ideas. It all turned out to be nothing, so…

            “They’ve dedicated a room at the Ministry to Charity Burbage,” I say. “Fifteen years, hasn’t it been? At first, there were so many dedications. Monuments. People’s names all over things. You can’t throw a rock on this island without hitting a memorial something. Slowing down. I suppose one day, when those who were there start dying, it’ll start again. There’s no memorials for the Longbottoms, though.” I smile crookedly. “Except the pub where Algie parked himself. They engraved his name on his favourite chair—”

            I look over, and Dad’s mouth is all the way open. A long string of spittle has reached his shirt, showing no signs of stopping.

            I get up, and fetch a cloth from his bedside. Going to sit beside him, I put a hand to his back, and start to clean up around his face. “There we go, Dad. Can you close up for me?” His cloudy eyes don’t react to the sound of my voice. His jaw remains flopped open. I put a finger beneath it, pushing it upwards. His teeth clack together softly, and when I let go, his lips stay together.

            For a moment. Then his mouth opens and he starts to drool again. Sighing, I just put the cloth up to his mouth, holding it there.

            There’s a tug at my sleeve. Without raising my head, I reach back a hand and quickly take the wrapper, then readjust the cloth. “Got it, Mum,” I say absentmindedly. I hear her pad back to her bed, and I toss the candy wrapper into the bin.

            I rest my head against Dad’s, my arm around his back, and I close my eyes.

 

When we land outside the Burrow, the first thing Molly says is, “Well, they seemed—”

            “What’s Arthur done to the house?”

            She stops dead in her tracks. “What on—Arthur!” Molly bustles down the path fast as I’ve ever seen her move.

            Smoke pours from the open kitchen window. A hand thrusts out from it. Coughing, Arthur calls, “Quite all right, Molly! I thought I’d start dinner!”

            She disappears into the kitchen, and there’s a lot of clattering. Arthur comes tripping out the door, two arms giving him a hard shove. The smoke suddenly swirls together, then bursts towards the sky like a rocket.

            Molly points her wand at Arthur out the door. “Forty years, you’ve no desire to cook, and now this! So help me, Arthur, you take one more step past this door and—” She’s too enraged to say another word. With a shout, she tears off into the kitchen.

            Arthur coughs, then says to me, “I’ve been cooking more lately. Been reading.” He smiles at me, the way he does whenever there’s some new Muggle thing he wants to tell me about. “Have you heard about feminism?”

            There’s a scream from inside the house, and we both start scrambling back. “Arthur Cepheus WEASLEY!” Molly roars. “What did you do to my stove?!”

            Grabbing my arm, getting in front of me protectively, Arthur says, “Quick, lad, to the garage!”

            He doesn’t need to tell me twice.

 

Arthur is happily at work deciding which of his plugs should go in the display. He dusts them as he goes, murmuring a Casting Twins song to himself.

            I sit in the corner. I’ve a little scrap of paper in my hand. I keep turning it over. If I don’t stop, it will probably fall apart.

            “That from your mum?”

            Startled, I glance up. Arthur’s gazing at me kindly. “No,” I say, balling my hand around it.

            I can tell he doesn’t believe me, but he goes back to arranging the plugs. “You know—your father gave me this one,” he says fondly, pulling out a gigantic black plug.

            “Did he really?”

            “He did. Wish I could say I knew your dad better, Neville. We were friends, but your parents were friends with everyone. Life of the party. By that time, of course, Molly and I had multiple little wizards running around underfoot, setting things on fire. Not much time for parties.”

            He’s told me this so many times. I don’t know that he remembers. Or maybe he does, and he knows I don’t mind hearing it once more.

            “I can’t even remember why he gave this to me. Or was it this one?” He picks up a smaller one that’s teal. He looks between the two, then gives his head a shake. “No, the big one. Frank was like that. Always giving people presents. Like you.”

            It’s rare that anyone tells me I’m like my dad. I mean, if they talk about the war years, then I hear about how I would have made him proud. It’s rare that I hear what he and I might have had in common, other than thumbing our nose at the Dark Lord.

            “You know,” Arthur says, trying far too hard to sound casual, “I remember a time when you had a lot of ideas. About things that could be done for your parents.”

            Unfolding the paper, I say, “I was younger then, Arthur.”

            “You’re a young man yet.”

            “There are things that can be fixed. And those that can’t.”

            “I know they’d be happy for you, Neville. If they could be. They’d want to know that you were looking forward in your own life. A wise man keeps one eye to the past and another on the horizon.”

            I run my thumb over the ink. “Arthur?”

            “Yes, Nev?”

            I gather my courage. “How do phones work?”

            He drops everything he’s working on, looking as delighted as possible. I focus on that, and not the flips that my organs are suddenly performing.


	4. Chapter 4

I can’t believe I’ve done this to myself.

            Of course I can believe it.

            I’m _late_.

            And not just a few minutes late. Oh no. Not Neville Longbottom, fashionably late. I’m stupid fucking Neville Longbottom, who is _forty-five_ _minutes_ late, all because he fell asleep in a bloody meadow collecting Colia’s draught like an absolute amateur, I cannot believe this—

            I’m running across Fostham.

            If only I could just apparate, but I can’t. It’s Fostham at night, when the bars get busy and you can’t just pop into an alley because you might run into several people being intimate and never mind that embarrassment, there would be the shock of some great gormless blonde appearing from thin air.

            He won’t still be there. I know he won’t.

            Still, I run.

 

He already thinks I’m an idiot, after that disaster on the phone.

            When he answered, I yelled, “HELLO,” because that’s just what you do on phones.

            That’s what Arthur told me. Every time I’ve spoken to someone on a phone, they yell, so I yell back. I don’t know why everyone has such a hard time hearing me, but they must, because they shout. Arthur said that people shout on the phone.

            Only there was a surprised yelp on the other end, like the thing had been dropped. Then Baltasar said, in a perfectly normal if peevish voice, “Who in the holy fuck is screaming into my phone?”

            Wondering if I was overdoing it, I lowered my voice a touch, but continued to speak slowly and enunciate. “This—is—Neville. Longbottom.”

            “Is there a problem with your phone? Why are you yelling at me?”

            “Because—that’s—”

            “Speak like a regular person!”

            Perplexed, I said, “Because that’s what Arthur told me to do.”

            “Is Arthur deaf?”

            “No.”

            “Are you sure? Because you were shouting at me like you were deaf.”

            “I’m not deaf.”

            I could hear him muttering to himself. I picked out something along the lines of ‘fucking inbred to the gods.’           

            Baltasar finally said, “Why are you calling?”

            “Do…you want to get a drink tomorrow night?”

            There was a silence long enough to make me wonder if I’d just cocked up all my chances with the first man to call me handsome in a very long time.

            Then Baltasar said, “Sure, but if you scream at me in the bar, I’ll vanish your mouth.”

 

I burst through the pub doors with enough force that I scare the stuffing out of the people nearest to me. I garble out something along the lines of an apology, but it’s lost under the music and the chatter. Finding my feet, I desperately search the place for Baltasar.

            It takes a moment, but I do find him. He’s sitting at a table, looking just as fit as every other time I’ve seen him, only he’s tied two small braids back and his jacket is off so I can see a little bit of tattoo coming down his arm for the first time.

            Another man is seated at the table, and Baltasar is laughing at something he’s saying with an open face and a friendlier smile than any I’ve gotten so far.

            Shit.

            I should just go. I missed my shot. It’s my fault, I inhaled too much of the draught, I didn’t even have a mask, because I’m an idiot—

            Stop it.

            Stop it.

            He came out because you asked him to. Odds are he even put braids in his hair because you asked him to come out tonight. The only thing it will hurt is your pride if you go over there and give it a shot.

            I tuck my hair back and swallow. Nothing I can do about being red-faced and sweaty from running across town. Or the grass on my knees from—no, I can do something about that. I brush my trousers off quickly, then square my shoulders.

            Longbottoms are plenty of things, but we are not cowards.

            I walk across the pub, with no idea of what I’m going to say. I’m not exactly the best in these situations to start with. Frankly, with witches and wizards I can usually just rely on them knowing who I am and that gives me an edge. What’s usually an annoyance can help me with the awkward bits.

            In this case, though, I’m entirely on my own, and starting off on the wrong foot.

            I get a few steps from the table when Baltasar notices me. He goes from smiling to sharp eyed in about a second, and starts shaking his head. “Oh no,” he says. “You stood me up. At the half hour mark, without even a text, that’s officially being stood up.”        

            “I don’t—text. I don’t even have a mobile—”

            He raises a hand, looking at the man across from him instead of me. Damn it, the man’s face is all chiselled instead of round like mine, and he looks like a model. “Had your chance. We’re all going to move on with our lives.”

            I should stop. I should just turn tail.

            “I’m very sorry I’m late,” I say, “but—”

            Baltasar gives his new date a sweet smile and holds out his glass to him. “Would you mind getting me another? I need to eviscerate this man with words.” The man obliges, giving me a derisive look as he leaves for the bar. Baltasar turns in his seat, crossing his arms and glaring at me. “If you didn’t want to show up, then you could have just _not shown up_.”

             “I did want to show up, I have shown up, I’m just late, I’m always late, it’s this thing that I do that’s—”

            “Being late isn’t a character trait, it’s a choice people make. Like how I choose to always be ten minutes early, and I am an _itinerant street magician_. You’ve got no excuse.” He turns away from me, shrugging like I’m already in the past. “You blew it. Now I’ll see how interesting things will be with tall, dark, and hung like a horse.”

            I like him. He’s a bit of an arse, and he’s probably got warrants out on him all over the globe, and not even for important things. That shouldn’t be attractive.

            Except it is.

            “Is he a war hero, though?” I ask.

            A second passes, then Baltasar’s mouth tries to tug into a smile. He turns his eyes to me, amused. Bet he didn’t think bumbling old me would stoop so low as that.

            “Really?” Baltasar says. “You’re going to pull that card?”

            I rub the back of my neck, raising my shoulders. “Do you think _he’s_ ever destroyed a part of the Dark Lord’s soul?”

            Baltasar turns the full power of his bright blue eyes on me, and I let him look. I feel like I’m being appraised, and I’m not sure what the terms of worth are.

            The handsome fellow comes back to the table with drinks, and Baltasar says to him, “I’m back to this one. You can go.” The man blinks at him a few times, and Baltasar flaps a hand in his direction. “You are being dismissed. Appreciated, but bye.”

            Bewildered, the man wanders off. Clearing my throat, I take a seat, wondering if Baltasar will be so harsh if he tires of me.

            “What’s that look on your face?”

            Shifting, uncomfortable, I admit, “The seat’s all warm.”

            He grins at me.

 

Now that I’ve gotten here, now that I have the opportunity, I just look at him.

            He’s thin, but not frail. There are scars on the back of his hands. He’s not afraid to defend himself with his fists. The tattoo that comes down his bicep is words, all in a language I don’t know. There are a few round little scars on his upper bicep that I could touch with the tip of my pinkie.

            He has a pointed face. Everything about it is pointed. Even his upper lip is practically a V in the middle. His teeth are all separated from one another, smaller than you’d expect. It makes him look a bit like some feral dogs you come across in the back country.

            His eyes don’t wander. If he’s looking at something, he’s looking at that, and only that. I don’t know if his eyes were always that colour or if he’s spelled them that way. It’s the same kind of blue you get only if you’re out on the sea, and everything is so calm that you can’t tell sky from water.

            “I’d tell you to stop staring at me,” Baltasar says, “but it’s giving me the opportunity to stare at you.”

            Smooth, Neville. Kicking lightly at the ground, which my toes can just touch, I say, “Sorry. Been quite some time since I went out like this.”

            “Let me guess. Serial monogamist.”

            “Uh—”

            “Uh huh.”

            “I was just with the same person for a long time.”

            “How long’s a long time?”

            “Ten years.”

            He almost spits out his drink. “Ten years! I have a hard time looking at the same person for ten minutes.”

            “If that’s true, I should probably get ready to head off.”

            “No. You have a nice face to look at.”

            Of course I blush. My face isn’t terrible. It’s round, is what it is. More of an oval over the years, but that’s still just a way of saying round that’s been elongated. I’ve the same green eyes as my mum, and some of Dad’s freckles across my nose. It’s not a bad face.

            “What happened with ten years? Let me guess. You’re one of those obnoxious people who amiably separated.”

            “Why should I even speak when you want to answer for me?”

            Baltasar props up his head with a slightly sheepish smile. “Sorry. Bad habit.”

            “Let me guess. Every break up you’ve ever had could definitely be a story. And probably involves fire.”

            “Not too far off the mark.”

            I shrug, picking up my glass. “We just weren’t on the same path anymore. I want to teach up north, Ginny’s ready to retire from the Harpies and have kids—”

            “Ginny Weasley?” Baltasar says, impressed.

            “Yeah.”

            “Jesus Christ. I’ve seen miniatures of her in Singapore. I could give a shit about Quidditch, but she’s some sort of sports super star, isn’t she.”

            “MVP three years consecutive,” I say proudly. “Before you make some joke, yeah, she dated me for ten years.”

            Baltasar shrugs. “Why would I joke about that?”

            Why does he have to pick the strangest times to not do what I expect? I fiddle with the napkin under my beer. “But yeah. Just not going in the same direction anymore.”

            “Better that than one of those couples that just hangs on til death thanks to inertia.”

            “What about you? Anything long term?”

            He makes kind of a face, and I expect him to have some diatribe about monogamy and commitment. Only Baltasar says, “Just hasn’t happened. When I was younger, it wasn’t what I was looking for. And my life’s never been conducive to that. The older I get, though—follow my life to its inevitable destination and it’s pretty grim. The old man in a bar saying ‘pick a card’ and hitting on the boys. That’s gross. I don’t want to end up gross.”

            “So what then? You’re looking to marry and settle down?”

            I have to laugh at the expression on his face. “I wouldn’t go that far. I’m just saying—it’s not as farfetched as it would have been a couple years ago. It would have to be a confluence of things. Someone I liked enough to stay for. A place that was interesting enough to stay for. We’ll see what the future brings.” Baltasar finishes the dregs in his glass and pops off his stool. “Get you another, war hero?”

            That’s never going away. I nod, swallowing down the last and giving him my glass. “Ta.”

            Before he walks away, he gives me this quick little look. Barely noticeable. Except I see it, and I can tell that he likes what he sees.

            I sit alone at the table, smiling a bit to myself. It feels nice. Knowing I can do something like this. I know I went off and did all the things the world expected of me when I was younger—steady job, steady relationship with a witch of sterling reputation from a good family. And I liked those things. I loved those things.

            I love this too. Not being what everyone expects of me. I’m going to be Head of House at Hogwarts. I’m the Head of Gryffindor, and if anyone says they saw that coming when I was a child, they’re a damned liar. I chose career over family. I can make hard choices when the need comes.

            And I’m here with a very attractive man who’s a bit mean and a bit lovely in a seaside town, and I’m definitely going to leave here with him.

            My gran would have a coronary.

            “What are you laughing about?”

            I cough into my fist, trying to quell my chuckles as Baltasar puts a beer down in front of me and climbs back onto his stool. Coughing a few times, I give my head a shake and admit, “I thought to myself what my gran would say if she knew what I was doing here.”

            He raises a brow, smirking. “What you were doing in general, or that you were doing it with me?”

            “I think they probably go hand in hand.”

            “You mean she wouldn’t be thrilled that you’re out with a strange man instead of—what, a woman? Someone from a decent family? Someone gainfully employed?”

            “All of the above.”

            “You’re definitely not being shy about why you’re here, so I’m guessing either you’re out or just really confident we’re the only magics here.”

            I shrug. “Who I’m interested in—if anyone cares about that, it’s not really my problem. Only person I dated before Ginny was a fellow I met in Auror training. I was shy about it, but I didn’t try to hide it. The last year—to be honest, I’ve been too busy with school for much.”

            Baltasar stops with his glass almost at his mouth. “Are—you telling me you haven’t been with a man for a decade?”

            “Didn’t say that.”

            “You said you were busy.”

            “Busy, not dead,” I say, blushing. “Besides, it’s not like…”

            No. I don’t know him that well, and…fuck, I’ve done it now. He’ll be like a dog with a bone.

            Baltasar doesn’t even bother saying anything. He just folds his arms on the table, leaning forward, and gazes at me with the intensity of a star. I prolong my torture by having a drink, somehow not choking as I do so. He doesn’t move a hair.

            When I can’t take it anymore, I say, as if I’m far more comfortable discussing this than I am, “Just because two people love one another very much and are very committed, it doesn’t mean they’re one another’s jailers.”

            His eyes widen, and I don’t know whether he’s shocked or delighted. Putting a hand on the table, and mercifully keeping his voice low, Baltasar says, “Neville, do you mean to tell me that you and your very famous girlfriend were polyamorous?”

            “No. Though if we had been, I don’t see how it would be anyone’s concern. I’m only saying—we had fun together.”

            “Threesomes?”

            “I’m…not saying we didn’t.”

            “Foursome?”

            I pause, and answer, “Only the once, and it was because England won the Cup after twenty hours of gameplay.”

            “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you.”

            I shrug, and say over my glass, “Perhaps I am.”

            It is the coolest sounding thing I’ve said all night. Won’t be able to repeat that feat.

 

“Do you always have a problem with fidgeting?”

            Baltasar stops, looking genuinely surprised. He looks down at his hands, where he’s been playing with a little flame between his fingers. Some patrons stopped by, interested, but he snapped, “I’m impressing my date with a magic trick, fuck off.”

            Snuffing out the fire, Baltasar replies, “I guess I never really thought of it as fidgeting.”

            “You were doing it without even thinking about it.”

            “Everyone fidgets.”

            “I’ve noticed you don’t really—use your wand to perform magic spells with,” I say, being very clear about what I’m referencing. Let’s not have a repeat of the chip shop.

            Baltasar shrugs. “I’ve never seen you perform any magic at all.”

            “That is true, isn’t it. But we’ve been surrounded by Muggles. We’re not all as—ostentatious as you.”

            “Ostentatious,” he teases. “That’s what you think of me.”

            “True, isn’t it.”

            “It’s not…untrue.” Baltasar holds up a hand and snaps his fingers. A handful of common gorse appears in his grip. He holds them out to me.

            “Charming,” I say, accepting them. It’s true, I am charmed.

            “I think it’s habit, from the job. You spend all your time using your hands to do tricks for regulars, it’s just second nature eventually. I’m not saying I’m not good with a wand. I am. But why bring out the big guns when the small ones will do?”

            “So you’re telling me you choose the path of least resistance.”

            “Sounds right.”

            “You don’t strike me as the type to choose the easy way.”

            “No? You think I prefer it hard?” I bite the side of my mouth, shaking my head, and Baltasar purrs, “Speaking of wands, when do I get to see your thirteen inches?”

            “Mate, the only way you’re seeing thirteen inches from me is with a really well done _Engorgio_ and a complete lack of dignity.”

            He breaks out into soundless giggles, shoulders shaking but not a noise made. He sticks his tongue between his teeth when he does that. Wouldn’t mind biting at the tip of that.

            When he pulls himself together, Baltasar asks affectionately, “Get out of here soon?”

            I run my hand over the common gorse, and pass him back a single _rosa acicularis_. “All right.”

            He looks at the flower a moment, then takes it with a small, private smile. He closes his hand around the pink petals, and where he sends it to, I couldn’t say.

 

I like the assured inevitability of it.

            Maybe when I was a younger man, I would have been completely thrown that a man like this would want me, would have an interest. To some extent, there is a piece of me marvelling at what’s happening. Only I’m an adult, and sometimes I like someone, and they like me, and off we go. It’s not exactly cross breeding Mongolian spined columbine. It’s the simplest math of all: 1+1=2.

            We walk side by side along the outskirts of town. He told me, “I’m at the hostel, so we’ll have to go to yours. Unless you have an exhibitionist streak too.” Since I do not, mine it is. It’s on the very edge of Fostham, only a few steps from where the beach goes dark for kilometres.

            We chat a bit as we go. I’ve had just enough to drink that I feel kind of cheerful and ready for anything. He’s had enough to drink that his smile isn’t quite as mocking. He trips once and I grab him by the elbow, prompting him to say, “All right, no one’s asking you to be chivalrous.”

            My room is up on the second floor of the open faced building, the same white and turquoise colours as the rest of town, only with chipped and faded paint. It’s dead quiet out here, just the ocean whispering and the occasional echo from town coming across the night. Baltasar walks ahead of me up the steps, holding the railing, and yeah, I take a look. Compact. I like that.

            When we reach my door, Baltasar leans against the wall, hands behind his back, and smiles up at me slyly. “You sure I won’t see those thirteen inches.”

            I grin, reaching in my pockets for my keys.

            Um…

            I dig deeper, as if my pockets are hiding a secret, then I start patting down my jacket.

            Baltasar starts to laugh. “Did you lose your keys?”

            With a sigh, I say, “They’ll charge me for that. I should know, I lose enough bloody keys.” I pull my wand from my inside pocket. “Well, you wanted to see my thirteen inches.”

            Before I can _alohomora_ the lock, Baltasar reaches out, snagging my wrist. He tugs me closer, murmuring, “Let’s see this.” I bite into my lower lip, a bit shy, to be honest. A wand’s personal. You don’t just touch another person’s…oh. He’s run his fingertips just above the surface, illuminating it with red light and sparks. I watch his face as he studies my wand. Turning his eyes back to my face, Baltasar says, “Respectable.”

            He takes my other hand, and lays it just below his throat.

            I move my thumb, smoothing it into the notch between his collarbones. Just taking him in. Without moving my eyes from his face, I point the wand at the door and say, “ _Alohomora_.”

            The door swings open. I slip an arm behind him and he puts his hands on my shoulders, leaping up to wrap his legs around my waist. His fingers sink and tangle into my hair as I pivot into the room, leaning upwards to kiss his mouth. His lips fasten to mine, and I shove the door closed and shut out the night.

 

“Again,” he says.

            “Again,” I echo, flabbergasted.

            I feel him nodding against my face. “Again.”

            Well, if he insists. I’m certainly game. “Again,” I agree, and roll him over.

 

I can tell he’s holding back words. I let him stew on whatever it is, too content and drained to fuss about it much. I just continue cleaning things up with my wand. Slow and steady.

            “You have to be faster at that,” Baltasar finally bursts out.

            Glancing at my wand, I say, “That’s what’s bothering you?”

            We’re sitting on the bed, the lamp illuminating things. Neither of us is dressed, and he doesn’t seem to harbour any shyness about his body, though Merlin only knows why he would. It’s late. Things lasted…well, considerably longer than I had anticipated. I’m actually rather impressed with the both of us.

            Baltasar looks truly uncomfortable for the first time since I’ve met him. “I don’t like being sticky.”

            In disbelief, I say, “Everything we just did, and _that’s_ what—”

            “Neville, would you please hurry the fuck up?” He doesn’t even give me the chance. He just snatches the wand from my hand and hisses, “ _Scourgify_.”

            The spell is like an electric shock, and the wand almost immediately pops out of his hand. Baltasar lets out a shudder—of course he would, the prick, using someone else’s wand feels fucking unnatural—then drops down on his back, covering his eyes with both hands.

            “Better,” he says in relief. “I don’t mind being dirty. I can wear the same socks two weeks straight walking in the country. But sticky—I don’t do sticky.” His chest rises and falls, above the concavity of his stomach. A few seconds go by, then he peeks out from under his fingers. “What’s your problem?”

            My mouth is ajar. I look between him and my wand. “You can’t just…there are boundaries—”

            “Oh God, that’s nothing—”

            “You don’t touch a man’s wand without asking—”

            “Here.” Baltasar holds up a hand, and his wand comes sailing across the room. He snatches it from the air, then tosses it to me.

            I catch it on instinct—oh no. It’s like copper in my mouth, like thrusting my hand into a vat of eels. It feels wrong. I feel like if I did something with this wand, it would all go terribly wrong.

            I both drop and push it away from me at the same time, wanting to scramble away from the wand, and it falls to the bed, inert. Part of me feels a bit foolish for reacting—I’m pretty sure I let out some kind of noise—but part of me is relieved and resolved to never touch that wand again.

            “Yeah,” Baltasar says, “and you wonder why I don’t use the thing on a regular basis.” He picks it up easily, spinning it around his fingers a few times.

            “Do you not…”

            It seems too silly to finish the sentence, but he does it for me. “Feel it? No. It works for me fine, like anyone’s wand does for them. But the way I can pick up someone else’s and use it, even if it feels like using my left hand instead of my right—no one can do that with mine. That’s rake for you.” He looks at the thing with a sneer. “Figures the Byquists would channel their magic through something that processes shit.”

            Baltasar tosses the wand across the room with as much carelessness as I would a pair of old boots. I don’t quite know what to say. There has to be a lot of history there. And I’m not sure about the etiquette of going into the family history of a man I picked up on the beachside.

            He turns his brilliant eyes to me. “Sorry I touched your wand without your permission. You’re right. Boundaries aren’t my strong suit.”

            “Yeah, well…what did you say about mistakes?”

            He smiles crookedly. “You remembered that.” I nod. “It’s only a mistake. And mistakes can be forgiven.”

            We don’t say anything for a moment. I can feel the night start slipping away. Things feel good right now, but I get the sense that if I don’t stop him, any second he’ll say he should be going, and then I won’t see his face again. Which, yeah, all right, that’s usually how these things go, only I rather like the look of his face. And the rest of him.

            I say, “Do you want to go have a sit by the water?”

            He blinks at me. I brace myself for him to say that no, he should be leaving. Except Baltasar says easily, “Yeah, okay.”

 

The breeze pushes my hair into my eyes. Shaking it out, I thread my fingers through it, combing it aside. We’re seated on a little rise above the beach proper, in the grass. Ocean laid out before us under the stars.

            Beside me, Baltasar is taking out the second of his braids. Once he finishes, it’s left a bit wavy. He glances at me, mouth turning up into the smallest of smiles.

            “Thirty-seven,” he says.

            “Thirty-seven what?”

            “Scars. That’s how many you have. At least, that I could count with my mouth.”

            I grin and blush a bit. “Sorry I wasn’t able to give a more accurate accounting of yours.”

            “That’s fine. Your mouth was busy.”

            “You’ve got a couple noticeable scars of your own.”

            “Wander the world enough, you won’t escape unscathed.”

            I nod to his right shoulder. “What’s that tattoo of yours say?”

            Baltasar doesn’t reply for a moment. “We were here before you. We will remain when your societies are ashes.”

            I raise an eyebrow, then I state the obvious. “So you come from a family of _dark_ wizards, then.”

            “Dark,” he scoffs. “That’s just a word.”

            “Yeah, that’s something _dark_ wizards say.”

            “So I’m a dark wizard?”

            “No. I mean—are you?”

            Baltasar gives me a dead eyed stare until I start to shift, uncomfortable. Then he bursts out laughing. “Your face, hobbit. Jesus.”

            “Well, I don’t know! Maybe Canada has some dark magic problem that I know nothing about.”

            “Canada has all kinds of problems the world doesn’t pay attention to. But we haven’t produced any snake-faced Hitlers in recent memory. So we have that going for us.” Baltasar turns his face to the sea. “I don’t mind this. Grew up land locked. Just fields and fields and fields.”

            “Wouldn’t know about that. Island nation.”

            “Rub it in.” Baltasar leans back on his hands and says, “I should be your summer affair.”

            “My what?”

            “You’re here another week. I’m here however long I want. You have a nice cock and your personality’s not bad either. So I think we should take advantage of the next week and just fuck one another’s brains out. And have some laughs. A summer affair.”

            I look down at him. “How many of those have you had?” He tilts his head at me, quizzical, but I’m not buying it. “That’s not the first time you’ve said those words. I’m thick, not stupid.”

            Baltasar shrugs. “It seems to be what people want from me. I’m no strings attached just by virtue of what I do. Who I am. Tourists look at me like another part of their vacation. I’m not trying to be a prick about it. It suits me fine. If I give them a spiel about a summer affair, they tend to like that. If you don’t want to see me again, that’s all right too. Your prerogative.”

            “I didn’t think you’d want to see me again.”

            “I come off as fuck and run, huh.”

            I stall, because yes, he certainly does. “I don’t know that I’m interesting enough for a summer affair.” He doesn’t dignify that with a response. After a few moments, I just give him a goofy grin and say, “Yeah, all right.”

            Baltasar nods, then says, “I feel like agreeing to something cliched like a summer affair should be followed by some free spirited gesture, like stripping off all my clothes and skinny dipping, but it’s too fucking cold for that.”

            “We’re also too old for that.”

            “Speak for yourself. I’m only thirty-five.”

            “I’m thirty-two.”

            “Ancient,” Baltasar says, just to be contrary.

            I run a hand up his back, half expecting him to move away. Only he doesn’t, and we watch the waves awhile.


	5. Chapter 5

The summer affair is one of the best things I’ve ever done.

            There is something very liberating about having a defined thing with an expiration date. It makes every encounter that much more vibrant, that less awkward. The first time I embarrass myself to the point where I start to sputter, Baltasar just hooks a finger into my collar, pulling me down, and says straight to my face, “You won’t see me again after this week. Don’t worry about what I think of you.”

            So I don’t worry about it.

            Almost immediately, even though we barely know one another, we become comfortable with each other in a way it takes me years to cultivate with most people. It helps that Baltasar’s so confident, that he’s clearly done this enough times he seems to anticipate my reservations and head them off with a few words or a reminder.

            He’s right. A week from now, I’ll be back at school, life will go back to normal, and this will be a precious memory. I will make every moment a good one.

 

The first day I meet Baltasar for lunch and spend the afternoon watching him work the streets doing tricks for unsuspecting Muggles. I watch his effortless patter, the quick way his hands move, and occasionally he’ll catch my eye where I sit on the pavement, giving me a wink before doing some ridiculous thing that earns him applause.

            He buys me dinner with the money he’s made that day, then we go back to my hotel and he straddles my lap and puts his fingers in my mouth until I bite them.

 

The second day, I spend the morning in Devon crawling through an underground tunnel system in a search for Nybald’s questing root.

            When I return to Fostham, late, bloodied, filthy, I don’t bother stopping at the hotel to clean up first. I go straight to him so he doesn’t think I’ve stood him up, and when I tell him that, he says I’m an idiot and I should get a mobile so that I can just text him.

            “Mobiles don’t work at Hogwarts,” I say, though I’m not sure why that’s my excuse.

            “You are not _at_ Hogwarts,” Baltasar says, exasperated.

            He drags me into a petrol station bathroom to clean me up, or at least that’s what he claims he’s doing. Once the door is locked, however, he shoves me up against a wall and starts undoing my buttons.

            I’m not a fool. He’s not the first one to get turned on by me being in such a state, though I certainly don’t see the appeal. Like I said, though, I’m not stupid, and I play into it. “But I’m all dirty.”

            Baltasar sees right through me. With a smirk, he says, “Wait until I’m through with you.”

           

We wake up late on the third day, hungover, sun reflecting onto the bed from a mirror. “Turn it off,” Baltasar mumbles into my chest, his arm thrown across me.

            “Turn what off?” I yawn.

            “The sky.”

            We go searching for what he calls “an actual diner, a real dive, not some English idea of what a diner is supposed to be.” I don’t know what that means, but it turns out to be a seedy little place shoved behind a souvenir shop, run by an American. The table we sit at is sticky, which makes Baltasar’s nose wrinkle, and he wets a napkin with water from his cup and wipes everything down.

            The food is greasy and excellent, and he eats far more than you’d think a man of his stature could. I’ve gotten used to his asking, “Are you going to finish that?” It’s funny when he asks me, “How can you eat so little?”

            “Don’t look it, do I,” I reply, full, watching him eat.

            “You look fantastic.”

            “I’m not being self deprecating. I was a fat child. I might have thinned out a bit, but I’ll be fat again someday. It’s an inevitability.”

            Baltasar raises a brow at me, a bit of yolk on the side of his mouth. “It’s a pity I won’t be around then. I like a man I can hold onto.”

            I smile, then pick up my napkin and hold it out to him. He gives me a challenging look. I shake my head, affectionate, then wipe at the side of his mouth.

            “Thank you, dear,” Baltasar says primly, and I snort. He points at my half eaten toast. I push it towards him.

 

On the fourth day, we go to the cinema, and I find the images on the screen a bit distressing. They’re not alive, but they’re not human either.

            “Stop squirming,” Baltasar finally hisses. “What is your problem?”

            “I don’t like…the way it moves,” I admit.

            “It’s stop motion animation. It’s brilliant. Chill out or I’m not blowing you in the bathroom.”

            The movie is about a little boy with hair like bristles who can see the dead and a vengeful witch who’s cursed his town. I like it well enough—I see a lot of my younger self in the boy’s new friend, a blond roly-poly boy who is oddly optimistic—but I can’t shake the sense of watching something uncanny. That and it’s a terrible reveal, finding out the witch was a child murdered for her magic.

            Baltasar does not take me into the toilets afterwards, muttering about how sitting beside me was worse than the children talking a few rows down. He looks about half ready to leave me behind.

            So I grab him by the wrist and yank him after me, going through the back exit. He asks what I’m doing, but when the door closes after us, I shove him up against it. His eyes narrow with interest, and he shuts up.

            I love when he talks. He is deadly when he doesn’t.

 

It rains on the fifth day, and we don’t leave the hotel room.

            Baltasar shows me how to order food through his phone, and we do that for both lunch and dinner. It means that two poor fellows have to show up on the doorstep, soaked, but before I can apologize too much, Baltasar says, “It’s their job, Neville. They’re getting paid.”

            “Aren’t Canadians supposed to be polite and say sorry a lot?”

            “Aren’t the English supposed to be repressed and sexually incompetent?” he retorts, poking me in the chest.

            We stay in bed and watch television, then we nap. We always sleep in the same way, me on my back, and him spread out across me. We both sleep like the dead.

            When we wake up, we sit on the bed and he tries to teach me some card tricks. I can’t quite follow his hands, and even the times I can, I pretend I don’t. He gets more and more irritated until I have to grab his hands to keep him from abandoning me, and I kiss him all over his pointed face until he’s trying not to smile.

            He slowly shows me how to shuffle a deck of cards, over and over. I can’t manage it. Something about all those little slips of rectangles just doesn’t work with my hands. I try a few dozen times, but I’m useless.

            “You’re useless,” he says.

            “I told you.”

            We open the windows to let in the sound of rain, and we eat cold food, and he tells me about his travels. I listen until I fall asleep.

 

The sixth day, I try not to be sad.

            I remind myself that we still have one more day. It’s sunny, and the summer’s not quite over. I still have a whole twenty-four hours to appreciate this strange man and this strange, wonderful time we’ve had together. I can’t believe how quickly the last week slipped by, etching itself into my mind with this sense of relaxing happiness and disbelief.

            We start the day down on the beach, and I tell him about the time I was eaten by a giant parapuff, and he does that thing where he laughs without making any sound. He laughs so hard he falls on his side and I turn pink but it’s nice to have made him laugh like that.

            In town, we run into a few children who have seen him do tricks, and Baltasar obliges them by pulling more tickets for the arcade from the air. “Where do you get them all?” I ask as we walk away.

            He’s so obnoxious; he has the gall to look affronted, and he says, “A magician _never_ reveals his tricks.”

            We go to the chip shop and he won’t try the curry sauce, not for all my cajolling. He takes my hand, threading our fingers together, and we leave them like that on the table while we eat.

            The afternoon we spend in the water. He refuses to wear a proper bathing suit, opting instead for some baggy black shorts that nearly fall off his slim hips. “I’m not European, I’m not wearing one of those ridiculous banana hammocks,” Baltasar says derisively, glancing down at my waist.

            “Why are you _so_ ashamed of your body?” I reply. He grins, like a predator, and chases me into the sea.

            We play like kids, slapping water at one another, dunking each other under. I’m a better swimmer than him, the first I might be able to say about anyone, and when he comes to the surface, half choking, I hold him up, kicking my legs slowly while he catches his breath.

            Baltasar presses our slick, cold cheeks together, then kisses me. He wraps his arms around my neck, and we bob up and down in the water, my toes just touching bottom.

            Afterwards, we go back to the hotel, except we go up to the roof, where it’s bright and it’s obvious no one’s been in years. He transfigures his jacket into a blanket and we strip our sodden things off each other, and we warm one another until we dry, until we’re damp again.    

            When we finish, I open my eyes. We’re nose to nose, breathing unsteadily. I can hardly keep myself propped above him.

            I grin, because it’s rare I feel so clever and good.

            A moment goes by, and Baltasar’s lips turn up at the sides. His smile is a smaller, more private thing. It’s a smile I don’t think he shows many people.  

 

I don’t want to go.

            I’m packing up my things. Neither of us has said much. I go about the routine of getting down on hands and knees to find all the things I’ve inadvertantly dropped beneath the furniture.

            How did I even get a sock so far under the—you know what, it doesn’t matter. I shove my arm beneath the television stand and latch my fingers on the sock, before pushing myself to my feet.

            Baltasar sits on the bed, his arms wrapped around his knees. He’s just out of the shower, dark red hair wet against his shoulders. He’s wearing a sleeveless t-shirt that shows me his skinny arms, the tattoo, the scars I’ve sussed out were made by cigarettes a long time ago. He’s chewing on his lower lip, looking at my suitcase and not me.

            The silence is becoming unbearable. “I’ll apparate to London,” I say. “From there I can catch the Floo back up to Hogsmeade. The rest of the way is just a short walk.”

            He doesn’t say anything. I don’t know what to do when he doesn’t look at me. When he doesn’t give me the full attention of his blue eyes.

            I’m sad. Of course I am. I get attached quickly. When I like a person, I tend to be ready to give them my all. No. No, that’s not true. I always hold a bit back. Not like when I was young.

            The thing is, I could see myself giving him every piece.

            Not to be. Not to be, Neville.

            “I’ll be in my own bed tonight,” I say. I find that I don’t care. I can only think of the bed he’s sitting on, where I’ve traced the lines of his body with my clumsy hands, where he’ll curl into the spot I’ve left if I get up to pee in the night.

            I have to get myself under control. We’ve known one another less than two weeks, really. We’re both adults. We knew what this was going in.

            I said I knew.

            “Do you really have to be back today?” Baltasar murmurs.

            I lift my head.

            He’s watching me now, biting at his thumbnail. I see something unguarded on his face. Something I recognize in myself and everything I’m feeling right now.

            I think about it, what I want outpacing reason. “No,” I say, and he stops biting at his thumb. When he does that, I let myself believe that he doesn’t want me to go. That he’s not ready to be done with this either.

            We stare at each other, and Baltasar says hesitantly, “When do you really have to be back by?”

            Mouth open, I think about all my responsibilties. I’m Head of House now. I have to be ready for all the students coming back. A few weeks ago, I thought it was cutting things close, going back only a few days before classes began.

            “Students return on the first,” I say. I’m holding onto my suitcase, like I need something to steady myself with.  

            “Saturday.”

            It’s Tuesday. “Saturday evening. They arrive in the evening for sorting and the feast.”

            “How long would it take you to get up there?”

            “Not long,” I answer.

            He starts fidgeting his thumbnail between his front teeth again. I can see that he wants to ask. I want him to ask.

            Why can’t I be the one to ask?

            “Three more days,” I say aloud.

            Baltasar raises his brows. He can do it, he doesn’t have any responsibilities, but me—he wants to know if I can.

            I let my hands fall from the suitcase. Checking his reaction, I say, “I can owl McGonagall. Tell her I’ll be there on Saturday instead.”

            He drops his hand from his mouth. “You sure?”

            I nod, dazed. “Yeah. All right?”

            He gives me a nod. He smiles, showing me his small teeth.

            A thought hits me, and I say, “I’ve already said I was checking out.”

            Baltasar lets out a sudden, giddy laugh. “Neville, we can—we can go anywhere.” He gestures to the outside world. “You and me, we can go anywhere.”

            “Like where?”

            “Anywhere,” he insists. Pushing himself to his feet, Baltasar walks across the bed to me. My hands slip around his thighs as he puts his arms over my shoulders, natural as anything. Looking over my face, Baltasar asks, “Do you want to go anywhere with me?”

            I don’t even know what it means, but the answer is yes. So I tell him so.


	6. Chapter 6

We set up in a little cottage I found in my expeditions. It’s caving in on itself, but Baltasar is completely unfazed by that. He’s told me a few hair raising stories about living rough, so I doubt a few cobwebs would frighten him.

            I make the place up. Baltasar just sits and watches, saying, “You’re the domestic one, not me.” I frown, but I don’t mind. I use my wand to straighten the place up, reinforce the roof, transfigure a soiled mattress on the ground into a comfortable bed. I clean the windows, and send as much dust as I can out the front door, using a spell that Molly taught me.

            At one point, Baltasar gets up and leaves. I finish things off, wondering what I’m doing.

            He’s a stranger, really. He’s a man I barely know, and I am cutting things very close to have a few more days with him. It doesn’t seem like a thing I would do at all.

            But people have always underestimated me. For all my faults, I know that’s true.

            I reach down, spreading my hand over the blanket I’ve made. It smells like freshly cut grass, one of my favourite scents in the world. I will fall asleep here, and wake up with him in my arms, for four more nights.

            Putting my wand in my pocket, I go to the door.

            Baltasar stands on the dune, the setting sun illuminating his back. He’s looking out at the ocean. Absently, he snaps his fingers, down at his side, over and over again. Every time he does, a little flame bursts from his fingertips.

            I amble across the grass to him, bare footed. “Enjoying the view?”

            He starts a little at my approach, but looks up at me. “I am now.” I give my head a shake, and we stand for a few moments, gazing at the sea. I realize that I probably won’t look at the sea again without remembering these days we’ve had together.

            “Do you want to go for a trip tomorrow?” I ask.

            “Sure. Where?”

            “I mean, you’ll be bored to tears—”

            “I said yes. Where do you want to go?”

            “Just down the lane a ways. We can walk. There are some plants I want to look at.”

            He gives me a dubious glance. “I’ll bring a book.”

            I put an arm around his shoulder, and he leans against me. I’m glad I’ve done this mad thing.

 

“Neville,” Baltasar says through gritted teeth, “when you said you wanted to look at plants, I thought maybe you wanted to clip some roses or something boring and English.”

            I continue slicing through the stem of the belabas. It lets out a high pitched squeal, waving its tendrils. “We’re coming out of rose season.”

            He gives me a threatening glare, then swipes at the cut on his cheek with the back of his hand. I did warn him. Belabas are touchy. You have to approach them slowly, downwind, being very quiet. I was in the middle of searching for a cluster when he called, “Is this the thing?” before letting out a yelp.

            I sever the stem, and the belabas becomes even more irate, trying to lash out at my eyes. With a practiced hand, I snatch it around the middle, securing all the tendrils in my grip. I take an eyedropper of ambras weed extract from my pocket and give it two drops. The belabas goes limp in my hand, letting out a coo.

            I begin wrapping it with twine, looking to Baltasar. He’s watching this process with incredulity. “This is your job?”

            Grinning, I say, “I also do it for fun.”

            “You’re out of your mind.”

            Opening my carrying case, I say, “Be a moment.” I walk down the steps, into the cluttered familiarity of my storage space. It’s humid with oxygen, at least in the first room. I go to a set of drawers, opening them, and put the neutralized belabas inside, in a few inches of water.

            I want to check on everything else, but I already did this morning. All my specimens are doing fine.

            Baltasar calls down, “I’m tempted to lock you in there. We could have been fucking by a beach, but oh no—instead we’re battling the fauna.”

            “Flora, mate. Fauna is animals.”

            I can hear Baltasar muttering, but then he asks, “Can I come down?”

            It surprises me. He’s never really shown an interest in my collecting. Then again, we still don’t know one another that well. “If you’d like.”

            “Is there anything down there that’s going to kill me?”

            I take a quick look around. “Uh—”

            “Never mind. Screw that.”

            “No, come have a look.”

            There’s a pause, then he grumbles. Baltasar comes down the stairs, cautious. I reach out a hand for him, and he says, “I’ve got it.” He looks around, dubious.

            The first room is sunny and neat. It’s just rows of drawers in the walls, wooden, labelled in my handwriting, which admittedly is terrible. Self conscious, I say, “It’s not very exciting in here.”

            “Why would it be? You’re a plant guy.”

            Scowling, I say, “All right. Come on, then.”

            I lead him down the short hallway, and Baltasar is laughing at me. “Did I offend you? After you just contributed to a stupid plant marring my perfect face—oh.”

            I’ve opened the door to the arboretum. I get a smug sense of satisfaction, seeing his jaw go slack as he tilts his head back to ogle.

            Finally, Baltasar says, “And here I was teasing you about thirteen _inches_.”

            He walks down the path a ways, and I lean in the doorway, watching him take it all in. He’s already a small man, but he is absolutely dwarfed by some of my favourite specimens. Baltasar approaches one of my thirty meter monsters, and puts his hand to the trunk.

            “What’s this called again?” he asks, head back on his shoulders.

            “Baobab.”

            “It’s big,” Baltasar says, which is an understatement. He turns, and points across the way. “Redwood.”

            Pleased, I say, “You know that one.”

            “When I was twenty-six, I road-tripped through California. I camped in the Redwood National Park.” Baltasar looks back at me, appraising. I half expect him to say that I’m full of surprises. Instead, he says, “You’re weird,” and I laugh, because that pleases me so much more. “Why did we go looking for some ridiculous screaming weed when you had this in a suitcase?”

            “Wasn’t sure if you would have an interest in this.”

            “Can we go for a walk in here?”

            “Sure.”

            He points to his side. “You, right next to me. Fucking herbologist, some fern could probably kill me and you’d just think it’s cute. Come here and protect me.”

            “We should probably take care of that cut first.”

            “What cut?”

            “The one on your face.”

            “I can’t even feel it.”

            “That’s because of the paralytic effects.”

            If looks could kill, I’d be burned to ashes.

 

Baltasar stops me by tugging on my elbow. “What’s this?” he asks.

            I’m off guard that he’s asked. It’s not that interesting compared to most of what I have in here. Just a patch of tall white flowers reaching up towards the simulated sunlight. He leaves my side and walks towards them.

            He stops short by a few steps. “Are they safe?”

            “Of course.”

            “Don’t say of course, with you there’s no ‘of course.’” Baltasar leans down, and the flowers turn their faces to him. He sets his mouth in a thin line, then says seriously, “Hello.”

            They whisper back in echo, “ _Hello_.”

            He stands back up and turns away. “Hard nope.”

            I walk over to Baltasar as he wraps his arms around himself. The small flowers on the tall stalks tilt their faces to me. “It’s alicitheum.”

            “What do they do?”

            “Just that. They’re just pretty.” That’s a lie, but again, I barely know him. Not even my friends know about the alicitheum. I give it a moment, then add, “They’re for my mum.” I gesture uncomfortably to the flowers. “Her name’s Alice. Alicitheum. That’s all.”

            I stick my hands in my pockets. We haven’t gone into this before. There hasn’t really been a reason. Why go into old hurts with your summer fling?

            “Why were you raised by your grandmother?” Baltasar asks.

            Like always, I get tongue tied and pink cheeked. Even though it’s a question I’ve been posed dozens of times over my whole life, I don’t quite have the answer down pat.

            “We don’t have to talk about it,” Baltasar says with a shrug. “I don’t like to talk about why I was raised by mine. It’s okay.”

            The old shame kicks in, and it speaks in my grandmother’s voice. Demanding why I won’t talk about them, after they sacrificed so much.

            “My parents were Aurors,” I say. “Quite vocal about being against He-Who-Must…fuck him. Voldemort. When he disappeared, his followers went after my parents, thought they might know where he’d gone. They tortured my parents until they lost their minds. They’ve been in care ever since. They don’t talk. They don’t…know what’s going on around them. They don’t know who I am. Never have. They’re alive, they’re just not…there.”

            After a few seconds, Baltasar says, “That sucks.”

            “That’s an understatement.”

            “So your grandmother raised you.”

            “Yeah. Her, mostly, and a couple other relatives helped out where they could. They were all old. All very disappointed in me. I mean, not Algie. The others, though.”

            He screws up his face. “Why would they be disappointed in you?”

            “I wasn’t much as a kid. I mean…I wasn’t what they’d hoped for. I had to battle a Death Eater before my gran looked at me as anything other than a mistake. There was just no way to live up to what my parents had been. Until the whole—” I shrug, uncomfortable. “War hero thing.”

            “Parents,” Baltasar mutters. “The worst.” I cast him a scandalized look. “I mean, the people who raise us. Whenever someone tells me they had a happy childhood or that their parents did a great job, I’m incredibly suspicious. It doesn’t seem like a real thing. I feel about decent parents the way regulars feel about magic. Impossible, but a nice thought.”

            “Except magic _is_ real.”

            “Yeah, so it’s a shitty analogy.” He turns away from the alicitheum and starts walking towards the grove of wailing willows. “What do these do?”   

            I have to grab him before he can get too close. I completely forget to ask him about his family.

 

“Why did your grandmother raise you?” I finally ask that night.

            We’re lounging naked under some blankets, by a fire out on the grass. It’s late, but I don’t want to sleep yet, and Baltasar said he wanted to see what the constellations looked like here.

            He’s across the fire from me, on his back. He doesn’t reply at first. “Just because we talked about your family doesn’t mean I want to talk about mine.”

            “Seems fair, though.” I’m propped on my side, running my fingers over a sheave of grass.

            “Fair is a story they tell children to get them to sleep at night, Neville.”

            “Fair is a value we should instill in people. Fair is what we make it.”

            “Then I’m unfair. I don’t want to talk about it.”

            Which is in itself fair. You can’t force a person to talk about something that hurts, just because you’re curious. I nod, and reach over, poking at the fire with my wand to keep it going.

            I hear Baltasar sigh. He puts his arms above his head. “They just left, Neville. It’s not a story. I guess they thought other things were more important. It was leave me with my grandmother or leave me out on the prairie for the wolves to eat. They didn’t even really make a choice. She said, leave him with me before you do something stupid, and they left me there and went wherever it was they went.”

            I don’t know what to say to that.

            “Get that look off your face.”

            “What look?”

            He gets up, wrapping the blankets around his shoulders. “That look.”

            He leaves me outside on my own, closing the door to the cottage behind himself.

 

“What do you hate about teaching?”

            I fumble the mango, and it falls from the tree. We both look down as it takes a very long time to hit the ground.

            We’ve taken the baobab tree out from my case and set it up on the beach. I’m not a fan of heights, but when Baltasar suggested this, it seemed too preposterous to refuse. So we’re sitting in the branches of one of the world’s oldest trees, over the English seaside.

            “I hit a sore spot?” Baltasar says with a smile, and produces another mango from his pocket. How many does he have in there?

            Before he tries to toss it to me, I put up a hand. “I’ll only drop that one too. Give it here.” He passes it to me. He’s nestled in a groove above me, our feet just parallel to one another.

            “You have all these ‘teaching is the best thing to ever happen to me’ stories. But nothing’s ever all good. I want to know what really pisses you off about it. You can’t enjoy being around teenagers every second of every day.”

            I know what my answer is. I knew it from the second the words came out of his mouth. Only I don’t reply, cutting into the mango with a paring knife.

            “Neville?”

            “Yeah. I’m just considering whether to tell you the truth or not.”

            “I can tell when you’re lying. Everyone can tell when you’re lying. You just have one of those faces.”

            “I know.” Unhappy, I say, “The answer doesn’t make me look like a very good person.”

            He raises his brows, and crosses his legs at the knees. “Colour me intrigued.”

            “You’re not going to go off and sell this to _The Daily Prophet_ , are you?”

            “Uh, if I was going to sell anything, it would be you and your famous ex having orgies—”

            “We did not, you bastard, don’t even tease about that—”

            “I’m kidding. You know I wouldn’t do that.”

            It takes me a few more moments to work up to answering his question. Even then, I feel like I need to give some context. “When I was younger, I thought—I mean, when I was…all right. When I was a teenager, yeah, and in the war, I thought things were clear. Good, evil, that’s that, no changing either. Good is good and evil is evil. But then I discovered that’s a really small way of thinking about the world. People I thought were evil did some really good things. Things that turned the tide. I had this teacher—this man terrorized me my entire time at school. He despised me, and I was scared shitless of him, and if I’d been under torture, I would have said he was a disciple of the Dark Lord. It was so clear. But then it turns out that we wouldn’t have won the war without him. He was on our side secretly the whole time. It doesn’t change the fact that he was—a piss poor human being who got off on tormenting children. Except there was this other side. He wasn’t the only one like that. There were a lot of people like that. So I had to…reorder my idea of the world.”

            “Happens to everyone. Shades of grey isn’t exactly a new concept.”

            “Yeah, except…” I sigh. “I got comfortable with the idea that everyone could change. That yeah, some people, maybe they’re bad through and through, but that people can change, for the better. That’s what a good man thinks of the world. He looks at the world, and he sees the best in it. I was the kind of person who was ready and willing to believe that it didn’t matter who your family was, what you’d done, that if you wanted to be good, you could be.”      

            When I don’t go on, Baltasar prompts, “What happened?”

            “Gregory Goyle,” I say darkly.

            “What’s a Gregory Goyle?”

            “This boy I went to school with. Death Eater parents. Part of this group of bullies that made my life a living hell. There was the main boy, but Goyle, he was a minion. A really big, silent minion. In the war, he fought for the other side. He didn’t get the Dark Mark, but that didn’t matter. He was one of them. Then we won, and he went off and lived a normal life.”

            “What’s…bad about that? I mean, did he serve time or anything?”

            “He served his sentence, yeah, it’s just…after. He lived a normal life. Changed. Seemed a decent chap. I had my shop on Diagon, and sometimes I’d see him go by, and it was always kind of a surprise, but he just seemed…normal. Then one day he comes into the shop. You know me, I’m awkward enough as it is, but he wasn’t really communicative either. Said he wanted something non magical for his wife. She was a Muggle. I’m not a florist, so I wasn’t really able to help him, but I gave him a list of things and some Muggle places to try. It was all so strange. He was about to go, and then he said, ‘I’m sorry for how we treated you. I’m really sorry about all that.’ And that’s when I realized, that’s why he was there. He’d come in just to apologize. It wasn’t the first time that set had apologized to me. The boy who was the worst, we’d made our peace. So I wasn’t all that surprised when Goyle did. It just kind of reinforced that sense of, these people can change. They were taught something, something horrible, but if you give them time and patience, they can change. I said it was forgiven, and it was. I wasn’t the sort of man to hold on to things, because I needed to believe that the world could be better. So off he went, and after that, when we’d see each other on Diagon, we’d give each other a wave. Sometimes we’d stop, chat for a minute or two. Just ordinary people.”

            “That doesn’t sound…awful.”

            “No, it doesn’t. A few years ago, just before Christmas, he came into the shop. Looking for a present for his mother. We did our usual thing. I asked about his wife and his kids, and he said they were all fine. He was looking for a certain kind of flower for his mother—I can’t remember what it was, but I remember that we didn’t have it. I said we’d order it in, but that it was so close to Christmas that I wasn’t sure if we would get it in before the 25th. He said it was okay, thanked me for trying, told me to have a happy Christmas, and he left. Then…he saw Harry out on the street a few minutes later.”

            “Harry Potter?”

            “Yeah, if someone says ‘Harry’ in wizarding Britain, assume that’s who they mean. Unless it’s a child, that is, then that’s a whole other story. But yeah, Goyle saw Harry out there, and then he blew himself up. In the middle of Diagon Alley, at Christmas, trying to kill Harry.”

            Baltasar gazes at me with wide eyes. “Jesus.”

            “Mm.”

            “Just…out of nowhere?”

            “Not out of nowhere. I guess his wife had left him, taken the kids. He lost his job. His mum was sick. His life was coming apart, and he saw Harry and—I don’t know,” I say, still shaken. “He seemed so regular. One minute we’re talking about Christmas, and the next there’s bodies all over Diagon. I hadn’t seen anything like that since the war. Five dead, three dozen injured. This girl, she’d seen what was going to happen, got between the two of them. Saved Harry’s life, but she was vaporized. Astrid. She was apprenticing at Madam Malkin’s. I’d see her sometimes at the coffee shop down the way. Smiled whenever she saw me. I didn’t know then what she’d done, because, like I said, she was gone. But I ran out there, not knowing what had happened. I just did what needed to be done. Sort of took charge until the Healers and Aurors started to show. Even when they did, I kept…it had to be done. By then I knew Harry was there, and I didn’t know if maybe he’d been coming by the shop. Maybe he’d been headed my way, and that’s how he passed Goyle. I thought about going to the hospital with him, but…there was work to be done on the Alley. So that’s what I did.”

            “Christ. So—had he planned it? Was he part of some group?”

            “No,” I say. “Not that anyone knows of. I think that when it came down to it…he was just bad.” I look at Baltasar. He’s tilted his head to the side, quizzical. “He tried to be good for a lot of years, but when things didn’t go his way, he just…did what he was taught to. He hadn’t really changed. It was just…in his blood, or in his brain, or something. He did what he was always going to do.”

            “Now—that does not sound like you.”

            “I know. That’s not how Neville Longbottom is supposed to think, is it. Easy going, believe the best Neville. People-can-be-forgiven Neville. But after what happened on Diagon…I don’t know if that’s true anymore. I’m not sure if people can escape what they were supposed to be. Maybe there’s a few, here and there. The more I see of the world, though—the more I see things repeating themselves. The people who were bad in the war are the people supporting the MA now. Some things…some people…they don’t change. Maybe most things. Maybe most people.”

            I eat a piece of mango off my knife. This is the most serious we’ve gotten about anything. It’s probably the most I’ve said about the whole thing. And I’m not saying much at all. I’m not telling him about the fingers I found. Small fingers. The blood everywhere. The shop windows blowing out, and how my ears rang for days.

            “Wait. What does this have to do with teaching?” Baltasar asks, as if just realizing how far we’ve deviated.

            Without looking at him, I answer, “Some of my students, their parents were Death Eaters.”

            He exhales. “Right.”

            “I know they’re just kids. I know it’s not their fault, what they were born into. What their names are. But I see them…I look at them, and I can’t help but think…when? When does it happen for you? Is it already happening? Because I know, kids do some—fucking terrible things. If children can fight for what’s good, they can fight for what’s wrong. I look at them, and I don’t know what they’ll be someday.”

            “Are there a lot of them?”

            “No. Thankfully. No, I don’t mean that. It’s not their—” I sigh. “It’s complicated. Most of the children of Death Eaters, they’ve been sent elsewhere. The smart ones, they left England. The kids end up at Durmstrang or Ilvormorny. Where they can start over without people knowing their families. But there are names at Hogwarts that…it makes my skin crawl, having those names walking the halls, and I feel terrible for that. I feel like absolute shit, because they’re just kids.”

            “Any budding sociopaths?”

            “There’s this one boy—Wuflric. Blimey, if he’s not murdering Muggles by the time he’s twenty, I’ll eat my feet. His parents, they’re both in Azkaban, will be until they die. He has…I know you shouldn’t say this about a child, but he has no redeeming qualities. The others…it’s harder to tell. They don’t seem evil, because of course they don’t, they’re children—but.” I shake my head. “Hogwarts has the four Houses, right? We were sorted by what we were, deep inside. And that led to…it helped lead to the war. It did. Slytherin, it was just a cluster of kids with ideas of superiority, and narcissism, and the Dark Arts, and we put them all in one place to feed off each other. We got rid of that kind of sorting, and now it’s alphabetical. We go down a list, and you end up in your house by chance. That’s one of the things the MA wants to bring back, sorting by personality. So they can get all the evil ones back in Slytherin so they can indoctrinate them young. I’m against that, I’m completely against that.”

            Knowingly, Baltasar says, “But?”

            I say what I never would to anyone else. “At least when they were sorted into Slytherin, you knew which ones would be bad from the start.” I kick at the tree, disgusted with myself. “And that’s what I hate about teaching. Knowing I could feel this way about a bunch of kids who’ve done nothing to deserve it.”

            I don’t say anything else. I don’t want to.

 

“I’ll tell you about my wand,” Baltasar says.

            I’m half asleep. It’s late Thursday, or early Friday. The rain started a few hours ago, and I took away one of the walls so we could watch it come down.

            Blinking, I turn my head to look at him. He’s lying on his side, hands under his head, watching me.

            Without me saying anything, Baltasar goes on. “The Byquists aren’t good people by any definition. They don’t hate regulars or anything like that. Truth is, we probably feel like we have more in common with them than other witches and wizards. The Byquists have their own traditions, their own beliefs…not great ones. Their magic is dark magic, I guess, if that’s what you want to call it.”

            “Hey—earlier, I didn’t mean—”

            He pokes me lightly in the ribs, silencing me. “My family isn’t interested in power, or changing the world, or anything like that. They just want to be left alone, to live the way they want to. Do the things they want to. What matters most is family. That’s what I was taught. Mormor, she hated my mom because she left. She hates me because I left too. I’m not welcome within a hundred kilometers of the farm. I’m probably not welcome in the province, not that it’d stop me. But anyways. Family.”

            Baltasar reaches over, tracing the purple outline of my venomous tentacula scar. “Do you know what a rake is?”

            “Not really.”

            “They say it’s a demon.”

            “There’s no such thing as demons.”

            “There’s no such thing as magic, either. They say that when the Byquists came to the farm, the place was infested with rakes. They defeated them, but they didn’t just defeat them. They enslaved them. They harvested them for their magics. Since we’re talking about dark magic.” Baltasar scratches his thumbnail against my skin. “The family made their fortune selling rake parts back east. Our family tree is intertwined with the story of monsters. There’s a wandmaker. There’s always a wandmaker, and an apprentice. Right now, it’s my uncle. He lives out in this shack with these wands all up and down the walls, and you go in there and…it sounds like screaming and singing at the same time. It doesn’t sound like it…I mean, you can feel it, not hear it. And my wand, it just…called out to me. Fucking thing. I had these illusions about how I wasn’t really like the rest of them. As soon as I had that wand in my hand, though…illusion shattered, you know?

            “There’s not many rakes left. I only ever saw the one, and it was…it was tough, but Mormor said they had been tougher when she was younger, and I believe her. I don’t know, maybe my family hunted them to extinction. But there’s this story in my family. That if you turn your wand on your family, the rake will come out of the wand and kill you. If you betray the people you love, the Byquist monster will give you what you deserve.”

            “Is that true?”

            “No idea. I’ve never seen a monster come out of a wand. It’s probably just a story. But that’s a story I haven’t told anyone in a long, long time.”

            “Why did you tell me?”

            “I was thinking about what you said earlier.’

            “I didn’t mean to make you feel—”

            “You didn’t. I have a shitty family. I was a shitty kid. I’m not exactly a great adult. I’m not saying that every kid you get from a bad family is going to be awful, just…” I expect him to say not to judge too quickly. Baltasar finishes, “Be careful.”

            “Careful of what?”

            He smiles at me. “Monsters.”

            I slip my arm under his neck. “Noted.” He burrows into place half on top of me, and I say, “You might not be a great adult, but I rather like you.”

            “That’s because you’re a terrible judge of character.”

            “At least I don’t have a monster in my wand.” He lifts his head, and I say, “Don’t even start with the jokes. You are so juvenile.”

            “Neville?”

            “Yeah?”

            “I like you too.”

 

The rain doesn’t let up on Friday.

            We sit together on a big chair I’ve transfigured to fit us. He fits so nicely up against my side, my arm slung over his shoulder. Occasionally I reach up to play with his hair, gently stroking it back behind his ear.

            Maybe I should be upset that this is what our last full day at the cottage looks like, but I’m not. I like this. Sitting, watching the rain with him. Perhaps that makes me boring. I might not be the best at this whole summer affair business. He doesn’t seem fussed, though, so I’ll be happy about whatever I please.

            Baltasar taps his fingers idly against the inside of my thigh. Every so often he’ll butt his head up against my chin, as if to confirm that he’s still there.

            Tomorrow I’ll go back to Hogwarts. After tomorrow, I will never see this man again.

            As if he can hear me, Baltasar turns his head back to look at me. I study his face. The sharp lines, the tiny wrinkles beginning to accumulate at the corners of his eyes. I reach over, putting my thumb to his chin. He turns into the touch, unblinking. He pushes against me, slightly, moving his face upwards to kiss me.

            He doesn’t kiss just one way. He’ll kiss like he could devour my face, he’ll give me feather soft touches to the temple, his mouth will glance off mine like a stone skipping across water. But he never kisses like he doesn’t mean it, like he’s distracted. He’s always entirely present in the moment.

            Baltasar arches back against me, twisting in my arms. I pull his leg across my lap, slipping my hands under his shirt. His hands go into my hair, thin fingers twining through it, angling my head to kiss my mouth, warm, hungry.

            He is so much smaller than me—but I think he could throw me across a room, if he really wanted to, and I don’t know why I like the sound of that—

            He scrambles back, pulling me after him. We try to stand without letting our mouths get too far from one another, but since there’s a considerable difference in height, it’s not the easiest thing in the world. He’s pulling my shirt over my head, and I’m struggling with the zipper on his trousers. I don’t understand zippers, they’re so difficult—I lose my patience and just yank his trousers down his hips. He cries out against my mouth, but then he nearly cuts my lip with his teeth.

            We fall onto the bed together, fighting our clothes off. His hands move all over me. He pulls me on top, even as I’m still trying to get my pants off. He somehow gets those off, maybe with his toes, I can’t even tell.

            I grab his face, giving him a light shake, and I say, “You’re beautiful.” He stares at me, going still.

            I leave a hand on his throat, pinning him in place, and begin working my way down his body with my mouth and tongue. The sounds he makes…the sounds…

           

Days, years, eons pass by, and I’m inside him so deep I don’t know where I end. His head is tilted back so far that I know it must hurt, his throat bared. He looks vulnerable like that.

            I feel vulnerable. I feel powerful.

            Things are raising in the air.

            I look over, as if everything is moving slowly. A teacup floats upwards, the saucer an inch below it. The sleeve of my jumper lifts off the ground.

            Before I can react, Baltasar grabs the back of my neck, pulling me down to kiss me hard enough that I can’t even think. I roll down against him to feel him cry against me, shoving my tongue against his.

            The air is electric.

            Baltasar curls his fingers into my hair so hard that it hurts, gazing into my eyes. He is a challenge. He is the road taken and not. He is a thing I can never have, and in this moment he’s mine.

            The cottage tears from its moorings.


	7. Chapter 7

“I feel like we should ceremonially burn it or something,” Baltasar remarks, taking in the state of the cottage.

            I let out a laugh, rubbing the back of my neck sheepishly. The building, not in the best shape to begin with, is now tilted haphazardly. It will cave in on itself within days, if not right before our eyes.

            It’s Saturday morning, and the rains have finally stopped. The sun is out, the waves making their welcome whisper in the background. Everything is shiny and dewy and clean. Baltasar has his rucksack over his shoulders, and my bags are at my feet.

            “No,” I say. “Let it stand.”

            “A monument?”

            “If you like.” There’s not that desperate disappointment of Tuesday. I’m sad, yes, but not—undone. I actually feel rather hopeful. “Where will you go next?”

            Baltasar raises his shoulders, as if it doesn’t matter. “Probably west. Back home for awhile. Now that I’ve checked England off my list. Along with several other things.”

            “What kind of things?”

            “Well, I’ve fucked an actual war hero—” I nearly push him off his feet, and Baltasar laughs at me. “I might stick around a few more weeks. See Stonehenge and the other tourist shit.”

             “If you make it north, Hogwarts is quite the sight. The towers. It’s an architectural marvel.”

            A small, fleeting smile travels across his face without reaching his eyes. “I’ll keep that in mind.” From the tone of his voice, I can tell he has no plans to go north. That’s fine—I was only teasing, after all. Shoving back his hair one handed, Baltasar says, “Are you ready to be principal or whatever?”

            “Head of House. I don’t know. No. We’ll see.”

            Baltasar nods, then says, “Come here.”

            He stands on the balls of his feet to hug me. I wrap him up in my arms, smiling a bit to myself. I’m glad we did this. It might be the last irresponsible thing I’m allowed in my life. If so, what a way to go.

            Baltasar slides his cheek along mine, smirking up at me before giving my lips a quick kiss. He drops down onto his feet, stepping back. He gives me one more look, then walks away.

            Before he can disappear, I say, “Baltasar.”

            It might be the first time I’ve said his name aloud. He looks back over his shoulder with those uncanny blue eyes.

            “Be careful,” I say. I immediately wish I’d said something else. Something cool, something memorable, something over than those two words.

            The side of his mouth raises, and he gives a two fingered wave. “Be seeing you,” Baltasar says, turning away, and it’s a kind lie. The moment his back is to me, he vanishes from my world with a crack.

            I’m left alone on the grass and the sand, and it is all so bittersweet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There ends Part One. Part Two will begin Monday, January 14.


	8. Part Two

I have been a professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for two years, and single for one. At this point in my life, those seem like the two things that define me. There’s the past, of course, but if I was the kind of person to get by on what I did as a child, I’d be disgusted with myself.

            My life did and did not take the paths I thought it would. This is not a revelation—when I encounter someone whose life has gone exactly as they expected, they are absolutely miserable. I’ve been lucky enough to have successes, and fortunate enough to have disappointments.

            Some very bitter disappointments.

            To get it out of the way, I was in love with Ginny Weasley for ten years. No. No, that’s not right at all. I’ll be in love with Ginny Weasley until the day I die. For ten years, I belonged to her. Now I don’t. That’s just how things worked out.

            Losing her and being at Hogwarts is bound up in one another, so I suppose I should go back to the beginning.

           

I asked Ginny Weasley out on a date when I was nearly 21, and I asked her because I was drunk. I’d just finished my Auror training, which I’d gotten to later than Harry. He went straight after the war, and…well, that didn’t go too well for him.

            Me, though, I stayed at Hogwarts another year. My seventh year, it’s not like I got a full education. I was too busy trying to keep the DA together, to keep students from being tortured by the Carrows, to heal from all the injuries I accrued. I’d had to drop everything and make for the Room of Requirement when I figured out that it would be easier for the Death Eaters to just kill me. So I needed that extra year.

            And I had a great year. I had a lot more confidence after—well, after everything. It was probably the first time I really loved Hogwarts.

            My first six years there had been…difficult. As a child, I was basically a walking target. If you ask me about my first six years at Hogwarts, it’s mostly just memories of bullies. And the first steps in the campaign against the Dark Lord, but to be honest, I was more preoccupied by bullies than say Hermione or Ron were.

            When I was a child, Hogwarts was just a bigger version of my Gran’s. A place where I went to hear what a disappointment I was. I was happy to see my friends when I went back, yeah, but they thought I wasn’t much either. My one bright spot was Herbology, much as it was at home. Professor Sprout—she might be the first adult in my life who ever thought I was worth much, outside of Algie. Certainly the only one I heard consistent compliments from. I adored her.

            I still adore her, present tense. May she live a long and happy life.

            If you had told me as a child that Hogwarts would be the place I came back to one day, to stay, I would have thought you were mental. I wanted to get as far as possible from the school the first second I was able.

            Only when you spend a year defending a place—when you learn a place’s secrets, its heart—when you identify a place with a movement, an ethic—it’s hard to let that go.

            So I enjoyed my eight year. We had defended, and we rebuilt. I did far better academically than I ever had before, in all my classes. I was surrounded by people who thought I was worth something. Again, quite the first for me. It embarrassed me, but it gave me that lift to succeed. Succeed on my own merits instead of letting what people said before pull me down.

            And I was sad to leave Hogwarts. It felt wrong, too. After what the Hat told me.

            Still, though, it was time to leave, and I went into the Aurors because—my gran told me to. Maybe I had some confidence, yeah, but my gran hasn’t changed that much, and she expected me to be an Auror like my parents had been, and the Ministry was willing to let me in even without Transfigurations or Potions. You kill a horcrux and the Ministry gives you a long leash.

            I did better than expected—something I say a lot about myself. At some point I might learn to stop saying it, but I’m not there yet, I suppose. I passed all my examinations, and then I was officially an Auror.

            So I got very drunk at the celebrations and got my bottle up to ask Ginny Weasley on a date. To my absolute shock, she said yes.

           

There will never be enough time in the world for all I could say about Ginny.

            Fiercest woman I ever met. One of the kindest, the funniest—the most beautiful—

            I can never stop singing her praises.

            Somehow this up-and-coming, soon-to-be-famous athlete, she decided she loved me. Me. Forgetful, bumbling, ridiculous Neville. And I loved her back. Of course I did.

            I was in awe of her. This woman who had been my defender since she was a girl, who stood up for me when even my closest friends mocked me. I had no idea how I’d gotten her.

            I told her that, the first time we were in bed together. We were both just laying on our backs, trying to catch our breath, staring at the ceiling. “Tamsin’s tits,” Ginny had gasped when all was said and done, making me turn bright red.

            When I told her that bit, about how I didn’t know how this had happened, Ginny turned and looked at me. “Because you’re you,” she replied.

            I didn’t understand. It took me a long time to realize she could love me as much as I did her.

 

After my relatively short turn with the Aurors, I opened my own shop on Diagon. Longbottom Plants and Herbs. See, that there, that was what I wanted to do. Be a herbologist. I didn’t apprentice, like a lot of herbologists do. I just went for it. It was brave and stupid at the same time.

            And it worked out. Splendidly. The shop was mobbed with people who just wanted a look at me for the first bit, but I sorted them out quickly and then it was me and the work. I love the work.

            I just…I’ve always understood plants. Not a thrilling profession, at least on the outside. But the world around us—it’s not just witches and wizards that are magical. It’s the whole _world_. We live in an incredible world, and if you take the time to look at your surroundings, it’s indescribable.

            Being in the shop, going on expeditions to find new products, experimenting and researching, advising, talking to other enthusiasts, being completely enveloped by this thing that I loved—nah, the Aurors could never compare.

            Being my own boss gave me a lot of freedom that I would have never gotten, working at the Ministry. When Ginny would have to travel internationally, I’d leave things in the hands of my employees, and off we’d go. Bulgaria, America, China—I’ve been all over the world thanks to how brilliant Ginny is. We took about a million pictures and brought back so many souvenirs that eventually our friends and family begged us to stop before they ran out of space.

            We’d come back, and I’d go right back to work, with new specimens and plenty to talk about. I was always happy to see my plants. When Ginny wasn’t at practice, she’d pass out in the storage room under a blanket I’d infused with lover’s peony. She would shuffle out late at night, me still working, wrapped up in her blanket, and she’d droop over my shoulder and murmur, “Let’s go home, Nev.” Some of my favourite words.

            And once or twice a year, I’d go up to Hogwarts at Professor Sprout’s request. I’d spend about a week there, telling the kids about all the things I’d learned and avoiding questions about the war. I loved that too. I was worried the first few times—I remembered how terrible children could be. But after the first class, I realized that I loved to tell them things. Loved to show them things. I was actually fairly good at it. No one seemed about to nod off, which was a relief. I’d spend a week in the Highlands, and then I’d go home.

            That’s how I spent my twenties.

 

In the spring of 2010, Professor Sprout owled to let me know she was coming down to the city, and asked if she could come by the shop. Of course I said yes. Like every other time she came, I was filled with excitement and terror. She had been multiple times by then, but when your mentor visits, it always feels like the first time.

            She came in, and said wonderful things about the place, and asked if I wanted to go for lunch. I said yes, and we went.

            Afterwards, I went straight home. Ginny was sitting on the floor, polishing her broom with single minded determination. She’d just cut her hair short again in a pixie. It made her mother livid, but I thought it made her look like a movie star.

            I dropped into the nearest chair. Without looking up, Ginny asked, “How’s the professor?”

            “She’s well,” I said faintly. I cleared my throat. “She wants me to call her Pomona.”

            Ginny grimaced. “I hate it when adults do that.”

            “Sweetheart, we’re nearly 30.”

            “You know what I mean. When the people who were ancient when you were little want to pretend you’re suddenly on equal footing. We’ll never be on equal footing, Captain Quix, and you know it, regardless of how many MVPs I have.”

            “This got strangely specific.”

            “Yes it did. What did Professor Sprout have to say?”

            “She’s retiring.”

            Ginny finally glanced up. “Oh, I hate to hear when they do that.” She shook her head and continued with her broom, like she was trying to put the polish right through the wood grain. “I dunno, Nev. I think of Hogwarts, and in my mind, it’s the same people and they all look the same and if they don’t I have to think about the passage of time.”

            “What’s wrong with that?”

            “Well, darling, the more time passes, the more people tend to die. Particularly those old enough to teach at Hogwarts.”

            “You do realize that probably means Filch is in the ground.”

            Ginny closed her eyes with pleasure. “Oh, there’s a name I’ve not thought of in years. I hope Fred drops by to torment him in hell.”

            “You are _dark_ sometimes, do you know that?”

            “I do,” she shrugged. “So? Do they know who’ll be taking her place?”

            “They’ve asked someone.”

            “Who’s that?”

            “Me,” I said.

            Ginny stopped what she was doing. She raised her head to stare at me.

            I nodded, shocked as she was. “She…she asked me if I would.”

            After another moment, a grin split across her face. Tossing her things aside, Ginny yelped, “Neville!” She propelled herself up just enough so that she could launch into my lap. All of a sudden she was kissing me all over the face, her fingers in my hair.

            Laughing, feeling like I was finally allowed to be excited, I said, “I haven’t said yes—Gin—”

            “Merlin’s pants,” she said between kisses, “I can say I’ve shagged a Hogwarts professor—”

            “Would you want to?”

            “When he’s as attractive as you, you bloody well bet I would.” Ginny pushed back, her hands to my face, and looked into my eyes. “I’m going to have children with a Hogwarts professor.”

            “So you think I should say yes.”

            “Do you not want to?”

            “I mean…do you really think I could…”

            “Why couldn’t you?” she said, in that voice that meant she was about to argue me into the ground.

            “Because…do you remember what I was like at Hogwarts?”

            Eyes blazing, Ginny answered, “I remember the man who kept that castle standing, Neville Longbottom. I remember _that_.”

            She kissed me. Kissed me like we hadn’t been together nearly nine years, like we didn’t do one another’s laundry and have fights over whose turn it was to vanish the garbage.

            “I’m going to say yes,” I said between kisses.

            Ginny squealed and I echoed, and she smacked my chest for making fun of her, but we were so, so happy.

 

A year later, Ginny sat me down in our bedroom and said, “Neville, I need to know how long you plan on teaching.”

            I was completely off guard. I always was when she wanted to have a serious talk. Me, I’m not the most aware man who’s ever lived, I can admit it. I might have been with Ginny for ten years, but if she didn’t tell me something, odds were I didn’t know.

            I had been home for two weeks. It was the longest I had been able to return since Christmas. I could get away for weekends here and there, but not much more than that. Teaching was brutal, but it was also the most rewarding thing I had done since the war. I’d been amazed to discover I loved it even more than the shop. However, it required commitment. That meant not going down to England much.

            In my mind, it wasn’t that different from Ginny going off for practice or games. There were weeks that would go by over the years where the only way I could speak to her was through fire call. Now it was my turn to be away, and what was so wrong with that?

            Confused, I said, “What do you mean? I’ve only been there a year.”

            Ginny sighed, slowly rubbing her hands together. I could finally see that she’d been wanting to have this talk for awhile. “Yes, you’ve been there a year, so—do you not see the problem yet?”

            “Apparently not.”

            “Neville, we were trying to have kids.”

            Blinking, I said in surprise, “Did we decide we weren’t going to again? We talked about this, we agreed it wasn’t a good idea my first year—”

            “We did discuss that, and I’m glad we didn’t have a baby this year. Because I don’t know if you would have been here if we had.”

            “I’m sorry. I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

            “Nev—I barely see you. Every time we talk, it’s so short. You have so much work to do—”

            “Of course I do, I’m a professor—”

            “I know that, but—Nev, how do you see that working out if we had kids?”

            I couldn’t say anything. I honestly hadn’t thought of that before.

            Ginny swallowed. “I’ve only got another year or so in me before retirement, and I need to start making decisions about what happens next. If we’re going to have children, I want it to be sooner rather than later. I want to make babies with you. I want us to have a family, like my family. I want that, and I know you do too, so I need to know what our timetable looks like.”

            I had been ready for years to have children with Ginny. I always knew we were going to. We first talked about it when we were 25. But Quidditch isn’t exactly conducive to a happy pregnancy, so we’d held off. The closer we got to 30, though, the more we said to hell with it, and decided to just let things happen if it wanted to. It hadn’t yet, but we knew that it would. I’d been so excited for that.

            And yet.

            For the first time, the thought of having children, soon, it filled me with dread. Because it meant I would have to leave my job.

            I tried to reason it away in my mind. I could have both. There was no reason I couldn’t have both. I could get away from work more often, or I could take leave. People have children and jobs all the time. Why couldn’t I?

            Except I thought of all my colleagues. Not a one of them had children.

            That had to have been a choice they made. If it had been one or two or a few of them—but every single one. They all knew what I hadn’t considered.

            I was shaken. I said, “I…” but that was all I could get out of my mouth.

            Ginny leaned forward, catching my eyes. “I know that you love teaching. To be honest—I didn’t know that you would love it this much.”

            “What does that mean?” She hesitated, and I said sharply, “What? Did you think I wouldn’t be good at it?”

            Ginny got up, turning her back to me. She put a hand on her hip and the other in her hair, the way she would when we fought.

            “Tell the truth. Did you think I would be good at teaching?”

            She turned back. Without looking at me, Ginny admitted, “No.”

            I raised my brows. “So—every time before I started, where I was nervous, where I said I was going to cock it all up, and you told me I’d be brilliant, you were just lying to me?”

            “No—”

            “You thought I’d be sacked after a year, didn’t you. You thought I’d do this and fail and then we’d have kids. That’s what you’re telling me.”

            “No.” She screwed up her face. “Yes and no.” I started to push myself up to walk away, but Ginny put her hands out, stopping me. “Neville, I never wanted you to fail. I never want you to fail at anything you try, because I love you, because what you love is important to me. I wanted you to do this because I knew you would always regret it if you didn’t. And—maybe I didn’t expect it to go as it has. Maybe in the back of my mind, I thought this would be a year, or two, and you would say that you’d had enough, but that’s not how it happened, and if you want to be angry with me—that’s all right. I can handle that. It wasn’t a very kind thing to think, and I’m sorry. If you don’t want to talk about this right now because you’re upset, we can stop—”

            “No, I don’t think we should stop. If you have something to say to me, I’d rather you say it.”

            Ginny took a few breaths, then looked right at me as she spoke. “I am not asking you to stop teaching right this second. I’m simply asking you when you will. Because I don’t think that we can have children, and be as engaged as we ought to be, if you continue there. I want to know that there’s a plan, so that we can stick to it, together, same as we always have.”

            “Gin—I don’t know that this is something that we can resolve in a single conversation—”

            “I know that. I know, I just need you to know that—my priority is having a family. For me, that’s top of the list. It always has been. My family—my family has lost a lot. Not as much as other people, but we took our share, and I need to know—I need kids. I _want_ kids. For me, that’s non negotiable. I need to know that we are having children in the next few years, or this isn’t going to work.”

            I still don’t know why I didn’t just agree with her right then and there. Love of my life, Ginny Weasley. Saying she wanted a family with me. That her problem was being away from me, the possibility of me being away from the children we had talked about for years. All logic would have had me agreeing with her, saying I’d stay on another year before resigning. Or resign that second. Everyone would have expected me to say that. Everyone who’s ever met me would think I’d look at that ultimatum and stay.

            Only I couldn’t get the words to come out of my mouth.

            Ginny gazed at me. “Neville?”

            My mouth moved. I wanted to speak. I wanted to tell her what she wanted to hear.

            Except in my head, all I could hear was, _you will forgive the unforgivable_.

            “I can’t give you a timetable,” I said.

            “What?”

            I looked at her, afraid of myself. “You’re…you’re saying we can’t keep going if I can’t stop teaching. And…I’m saying that I don’t think that I can.”

            She couldn’t even blink, and for a second I didn’t see the woman who’d won the World Cup with a broken arm. I saw a girl. I saw her the way I first saw her all those years ago.

            Ginny said faintly, “There’s…not a lot of room for compromise there.”

            “No. I don’t suppose there is.”

            She came and sat down in front of me, so our knees touched. I could see in her face that she realized she was about to get her heart broken. I was ahead of her. Mine was already splitting in half.

            “We should talk about this,” Ginny said.

            “Yeah,” I whispered. “We should.”

 

I waited to hear, “Come in,” before opening the door.

            Every time I entered the office, I had a brief moment of, _I do not belong here, something has gone terribly wrong_. The Headmistress’ office was covered in the portraits of its previous occupants going back a thousand years. They always turned to look at me as soon as I entered. I’ve never cared for having that many eyes on me at once.

            But then I remembered that I was thirty-one years old, that Hogwarts was my home, and I just carried on.

            Walking across the room, I said, “You called for me, Headmistress?”

            With a sigh, McGonagall put away her quill, then fixed her eyes on me over her glasses. “Neville, I have known you for decades. At some point, you will have to call me Minerva.”

            I paused at the chair before the desk. I was suddenly reminded of the conversation I’d had with Ginny two years ago. And I was struck with the same missing her I’d felt for the past year. “Or perhaps not,” I said. The look she gave me could have melted stone. Sitting, I amended, “I will do my best.” I had to swallow the word out. “Minerva.”

            As soon as I said her name, I could tell from her face that she knew she had made a mistake, only she had committed at that point. No bloody way I was ever calling her Minerva again, though.

            I kept my gaze on her and nowhere else. All the long dead looking at me was one thing. Having Snape’s gaze on me was another.

            “I know you’re leaving soon. You’ll give my best to your family.”

            “Of course, ma’am.” I was supposed to be in Hogsmeade to catch a portkey south in about forty-five minutes. I would be late, but then again, I am nearly always late.

            She intimidated me, but not as much as when I was a child. That’s still not saying a lot. Folding her hands together, McGonagall looked me directly in the eyes, the way she looked at every single person she spoke to. “I have just received some news that I did not expect for some time, but what we expect and what happens rarely cross paths.”

            “Yes ma’am.”

            Her lips pressed together at that, but she continued on. “Professor McSweeney has given me her resignation, effective immediately.”

            “What?!” I said, unable to stop myself.

            McSweeney had been the Transfigurations professor since 1998. For heaven’s sake, she was _Head of Gryffindor_. She couldn’t just resign without saying anything first!

            “She didn’t want a big fuss made at the Feast, apparently. Personally, I think there will be some extremely unhappy children who will feel cheated of the opportunity to say their goodbyes—” McGonagall inhaled. “But that is neither here nor there. What is important is that Gryffindor finds itself without a Head of House.”

            I started to think of the possibilities. I was still reeling from the fact that McSweeney was gone. She hadn’t said a word to me. If the children would be sad they couldn’t say their farewells, so was I.

            “Grubbly-Plank would have been best, but she’s retiring as well,” I said in dismay. “It can’t be Aida, because she’s told me herself she never wanted to be Head of House. I mean—I don’t know that I should have told you that, not that I know if you’re considering her, but—she would be a good choice, if that’s what you thought—”

            “No, Neville, I have someone else in mind.”

            I sat back, relieved. “Excellent. Who?”

            “You.”

            My relief vanished.

            I’m not sure how much time passed before one of the portraits said, “I think you broke this one, Minerva.”

            “Thank you, Limebert, that is enough,” McGonagall said. She lifted one thin brow at me. “Thoughts, Longbottom?”

            I stuttered, “No, ma’am, I think I agree with Limebert.”

            The portraits tittered, and I heard one mutter, “Typical Gryffindor stupidity.” A glance from McGonagall shut up whoever that was. The woman could silence the illustrious dead with a flick of the eyes.

            McGonagall tapped her fingers on the desktop. “Let me explain.”          

            “Please,” I said weakly.

            “I think you are the most deserving.”

            I waited for more. “I think I’ll need more explanation, Headmistress.”

            “Of the professors currently at Hogwarts, those who are previous Gryffindors are you, Professors Grubbly-Plank and Mezzaneer. As stated, Wilhelmina is leaving us, and Aida has made it abundantly clear she has no desire to lead a House.”

            Again, I waited, but she was not giving me much to go on. “Yes, that—does leave me as the only former Gryffindor. But—Britain is filled with Gryffindors. There’s whoever you hire for Transfigurations! I know it’s short notice but—”

            I was floundering, trying to figure out what was happening. It made _no_ sense.

            “I’ve considered that. And I still think you are the most appropriate choice.”

            My brain had stopped working. Since that happened, my mouth figured it might as well give up too.

            McGonagall said, “I had high expectations for you, but likely not as high as those you set for yourself. I’ve noticed your successes. I’ve watched how you deal with failure. I’ve seen how you are with the students. I imagine some will say that you’ve only been here two years, not nearly enough time. I say it’s a testament to your character that two years are all that’s needed for me to know that you are right for the position. You’re unafraid of hard work. You’re patient, unfailingly patient, with these children—”        

            “Please stop complimenting me,” I said. It was making me a little ill, honestly. It was so unfamiliar I didn’t know how to process that.

            She seemed to realize that, and it made her smile. I have never understood her sense of humour. Maybe it’s a Scottish thing.

            “Neville, you are the first of the students from the war years to return here as a professor. It has been earned. I think the students will respect you all the more for that. I think they already do. I realize that without the old sorting system in place that it’s quite a different attitude than what you came up with, but I believe you can handle that. I know it’s a large request, and you’d probably like some time to consider; however, if I could have your answer sooner rather than later, I would be most appreciative.”

            Horrified, I said, “Right now?”

            She rolled her eyes. “No, Longbottom, not this second. Within the next few days.”

            “Okay. I mean—not _okay_ , but okay like—I’ll consider it.” That came out a question more than anything.

            “Very well. Let me walk you out.”

            “No, I can—” But McGonagall was already getting up, so I swiftly got to my feet. “All right.”

            I got ahead of her to open the door, though. The woman is in her mid seventies, the least I can do is open the door for her.

            At the bottom of the stairs, when the gargoyle moved aside, McGonagall stopped me with a look. “Neville. Before you say no, I want you to consider something. You have sacrificed a great deal to be here. It would be a pity to lose confidence in yourself now.”

            She nodded, then turned back to the stairway.

            “I’ll do it,” I said.

            That came from nowhere, like most of the large decisions I’ve made in the last few years.

            Before I could clap my hands over my mouth or accuse her of confunding me, McGonagall was facing me again. “I’m happy to hear that.” Like she knew I’d say yes all along. Like it was a bloody foregone conclusion. “If you wouldn’t mind returning here after your visit so we can go over the requirements.”

            “I can—I can cancel my trip—”

            “That won’t be necessary. See your family, tell Augusta. I’m not to be responsible if she falls faint. There will be plenty to do over the coming weeks, but then I want you to take all of August off. You will most certainly need the rest before term starts.”

            I nodded. Everything was happening so quickly that I was in a daze. “I imagine I will.”

            She held a hand out to me. “Congratulations, Longbottom.”

            The last time she had touched me was when she shook my hand to welcome me on as professor. I took her hand, and it was a surprise, how small her hand felt in mine. People describe my gran as formidable, but she pales in comparison to McGonagall. “Thank you, Headmistress.”

            “You should be very proud. You’ll be the youngest Head of Gryffindor in five hundred years.”

            “Don’t tell me that,” I said, going pale.

            Then McGonagall laid her hand on my arm, another small smile on her face. “It’s for the best, Neville. This will give you more experience for when you’re Headmaster.” She patted my arm and turned to walk back up the staircase.

            I nodded and said, “Thank you, Headmistress.” I walked a few steps away, in disbelief at what just happened.

            I stopped dead in my tracks. Because what she said finally pierced my thick skull.

            I said, “ _What_ ,” and spun around.

            The gargoyle clunked back into place.


	9. Chapter 9

When the Sorting Hat was first placed on my head, I panicked.

            Before I went to Hogwarts, Gran bemoaned the fact that I would never be good enough to enter Gryffindor. “Hufflepuff, through and through,” she would mutter. Other legacies would be sent to school with plenty of objects bearing their assumed House colours. Gran didn’t bother sending me that first year with my dad’s tie. “It would be an embarrassment when you don’t get in,” Gran grumbled, making sure to show me the tie before putting it away.

            So when I was in the Great Hall and sat down upon the chair, being approached by Minerva McGonagall, the severe looking woman who’d been by Gran’s for tea on multiple occasions, I was certain that I was about to bring shame to my entire family. My grandparents, Algie, my parents in St. Mungo’s. I was going to prove in front hundreds of people how useless I was.

            The Hat sank over my head, falling all the way to my nose, and I squeezed my eyes shut and waited for it to tell the whole world what a failure I was.

            _Ah_ , it said. _The boy who lived_.

            My eyes popped open. “What?”

            _I would ask if you’re hard of hearing, but I’m speaking inside your mind._

            “Sorry,” I whispered. “Only you said—”

            _What_?

            “Nothing. Sorry.”

            _Very well. As I was saying. The boy who lived. I’ve been waiting for you_.

            “I think there’s—been a mistake?”

            _You think there’s been a mistake_?

            “I’m not—Harry Potter is the boy who lived. I’m—Neville Longbottom?”

            _You don’t sound too certain of that_.

            “I am. I’m Neville Longbottom.” I barely spoke above a whisper. I hadn’t heard or seen anyone else speak to the Sorting Hat. I was obviously doing it wrong.

            _Yes. Son of Alice and Frank. The boy who lived_.

            “I’m not though—”

            _You’re not the son of Alice and Frank_?

            “I am, but—”

            _I have waited a very long time for you. Most think that I’m a simple hat. That I merely come out once a year and sing a silly song and tell you where you will leave your shoes for seven years. I am more than that. I must look at each student and determine not only where they will thrive, but how they will affect those around them. It is a delicate balance, one at which I do not always succeed._

            I waited a moment, then asked worriedly, “So am I in Hufflepuff?”

            _Are you listening to me, Neville Longbottom?_

“Yes, sir—ma’am—your hatness?”

            _I have waited for you. It is rare that I can see with clarity what is to come, but you…_

            “Me?” I squeaked. “What about me?”

            The Hat was silent for a long, pregnant pause.

            Then it roared, “ _GRYFFINDOR!”_

 

I should have known better, I should have bloody known—

            I come spinning out of the Floo, spit out on the dirtiest floor in Scotland, in a room that smells of goats. I’m dizzy. I am…quite dizzy.

            There’s a holler, far too close for my liking, and a familiar voice yells, “What in _Nimue’s_ name are you doing?”

            Bags. I need my bags. Thank heavens for the stabilizer in my specimen bag. Nothing will be too disturbed—I think.

            A hand under my elbow and I’m being raised up on my feet. Not quite sure I can stand on those, but they’ll do their level best. Blinking, I hazily look into a pair of piercing, squinting blue eyes.

            “Hello Aberforth,” I say, and my knees start to give.

            He keeps me upright with a steel grip. “No you don’t. You don’t pass out in my establishment, Longbottom.” He shakes me hard enough to jar me. Then he does it again.

            Oddly, that’s enough to wipe some of the cobwebs from my brain. When Aberforth goes to jostle me a third time, I say, “All right! I’ve got it.”

            He tosses me off, mouth curled in disgust. “Just like you, turning up when an old man least expects it.”

            I smile. “I missed you too.” Aberforth grumbles, and I look around for my bags. “I am so—”

            “Let me guess. Late.”

            “What time is it? 5:30?”

            “Try 6:00, Longbottom.”

            Bent over to get my bags, I look at him in shock. “It is not.” He snorts and points to the dusty clock on the wall. It is two minutes to 6:00. “Bugger,” I curse, and start snatching up my things.

            “Should you not be at the school, Head of Gryffindor?” Aberforth says smugly, crossing his arms.

            “Yes! Yes, I should, so I’ll just be—” I try to jog towards the exit, but I trip over my robes.

            Aberforth lets out a put upon sigh. “You’ll never make it in time.” He goes behind the bar, obviously getting me something.

            I realize all the patrons in the pub are watching me. I give them a half hearted wave. “Good evening.” No one says anything. No shaking the feeling of eyes on me, though.

            Aberforth turns back to me and holds out—oh no.

            “I could just run,” I say weakly.

            He tosses the broom to me, and I catch it with my arms, suitcases banging together. “What kind of wizard are you? Get on the bloody broom.”

            I look down at it. “Right. “

            “Go!” Aberforth shouts.

            “Right!” I scramble out of the Hog’s Head, into the evening, and of course I’m late to my first official duty as Head of Gryffindor.

            Thank you, so very much, to the Magical Alliance.

 

I would have made it on time if it weren’t for those pricks.

            When I got to the Ministry, they were _protesting_. They were actually blocking the concourse with their signs, demanding that ‘traditional’ sorting be brought back. I saw all the faces I expected, and some that I didn’t.

            “Padma?” I said in disbelief.

            She sunk back a little, before straightening. “Hello Neville.”

            “What—what are you—have you lost your mind?”

            She was several months pregnant, holding tightly to her sign that said, ‘Ready Minds—Ravenclaw.’ “Listen—I know that a lot of people—”

            “You fought—you fought in the Battle. You saw what these people did, and now you’re—”

            “It’s not like that! I’m not with the Alliance, I just think that Ravenclaw should be for Ravenclaws! There’s no harm in that!”

            I couldn’t even speak for a moment, I was so upset. I pointed at one of the Rookwood cousins. “You’re standing with former Death Eaters. You are part of the Alliance.”

            “It’s not that simple—”

            “You’ve forgotten what Hogwarts looks like when it’s filled with dead children,” I snapped, and she balked. “Congratulations, Padma—if you get your way, we’ll have another war just in time for that one inside you, all because you’re attached to your House colours.”

            The Aurors were useless, not sure what to do, because no one is so brazen as to actually come to the Ministry to tell the world they’re a bunch of fascists. Yet here they all were, on the day students were returning to Hogwarts.

            I gritted my teeth and stormed over to Dean, who was watching things from the side in his Auror’s robes. “Why aren’t you people doing anything?”

            He spread his hands, looking as disgusted as I felt. “We were told to stand by until orders come down from the Minister. Trust me, Neville, if it was my choice, they’d be Stunned. Repeatedly.”

            “There are laws. They can’t just go around saying this garbage—look at that one!” I jabbed my finger at a sign that said ‘My child deserves a Muggle free environment!’ “What’s next? What else will they be allowed to get away with?”

            “I don’t know, Nev. This is all—” We watched as one of the protesters shoved back a witch trying to get through, and Dean immediately drew his wand. “There we go.” He strode forward, raising his voice in a commanding yell. “Congratulations, you’re all arrested!”

            We had to wait for all the protesters to be arrested. Some of them tried to run off. I grabbed one by the back of his robes and held him in place until an Auror could get him.

            After that, there was a line for the Floo that lasted a half hour.

            All because the world’s going mad again.

 

I hate flying. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.

            The first time I ever got on a broom, I shot up into the sky and fell off and fractured my wrist in front of all my classmates. When she was taking me to the hospital, Madam Hooch said, “Think of it this way, Longbottom—at least you were first in the air.” That didn’t help. I was the first to make a fool of myself too.

            I’ve hated flying ever since. I have to balance my suitcases and myself and I have to go _fast_. I have to go fast if I want to get there in time, which I won’t, I’m already late, but I have to go faster if I don’t want to be later than I already am.

            McGonagall is going to kill me. I’m going to show up and she’s going to say, “And here is Neville Longbottom, who _was_ to be your new Head of Gryffindor.”

            I should have gone back earlier. I knew that. I knew it was a terrible risk—

            Good grief! A bird nearly flew into me! I drop about three meters with a shriek before catching myself. Flying! Why do I do these things to myself?

            I lean forward, trying to go faster, pleading with the broom to get me there in time. I don’t know why I’m always late. I mean, I do, it’s just a thing I do—

            _It’s not a character trait, it’s a choice_.

            Yes. I chose this. I’ll have to deal with the consequences.

 

Hogwarts comes into sight and I let out a cry of relief that apparently startles a flock of birds below, because all of a sudden they’re flying up at me.

            Bugger, bugger, bugger—

            I veer to the side, avoiding the flock, and go hurtling towards the towers.

            I have a terrible premonition—I’m going to fall. The broom is going to know how desperate I am, and it’s going to throw me just outside the Great Hall, and all the students will look up at the windows as a screaming man comes flying out of the sky. Welcome to Hogwarts, children, yes, that _was_ Neville Longbottom. This will teach you a valuable lesson about being on time.

            Somehow—miraculously—I come down over the lake, and if that noise behind me was something reaching up from the depths to take a swipe, then I know nothing about it. I’m just imagining things. I tear across the surface of the water, aiming myself at the boathouse.

            Slow down, Neville—Neville, for pity’s sake, you’re going to put a hole through the thing!

            I pull up abruptly as I come off the water. The broom goes straight up, and—yes, here I go.

            I fall.

            _Whoomp_.

            Ow.

            My eyes flutter open. I landed flat on my back. I’m looking up at the night and the stars. It’s rather pretty.

            Come on, Nev. Rolling onto my side with a groan, I push myself onto my elbow. My carrying case is still locked, but my suitcase has split open. I take my wand out and cast a rather weak straightening spell. Everything piles back into the suitcase, and the thing closes, but there’s clothes sticking out the sides.

            It’ll do. I struggle to my feet, snatching my bags up, then I hustle up to the castle as quick as I can, aching, out of breath.

            The halls are empty, but I can hear McGonagall’s voice coming through the entrance to the Great Hall. I limp around the side. I can try and sneak out to sit with the other teachers. People will still notice me, but so long as I don’t make a scene—please, don’t let me make a scene.

            I hear McGonagall say, “Paolo Beaumont, please step forward.”

            Oh no—they’re already sorting! I am so useless! I’m late for sorting. What kind of Head of House is late for the bloody sorting?!

            She says, “Ravenclaw,” and I hear the cheering. They’re only on B. That’s fine. There will be dozens more students to sort. It could be worse.

            I come up to the side entrance, by the suits of armour. I peak into the hall. Oh dear. It’s hard enough to sit there in front of several hundred people, but to walk in, late, in front of them?

            The Hall is lit with candles, and there are so many young faces. There are my colleagues, my friends. There’s McGonagall, in her black robes, holding the sorting book in her hands. “Rebecca Blymont, please step forward.”

            Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, Slytherin, Hufflepuff. That’s the order people are assigned. So Rebecca Blymont will be one of mine. I see a tiny little girl with yellow pigtails step forward, looking at McGonagall with a fear I can’t say I’ve entirely shed twenty years on. I smile, remembering a lot of things.

            “Gryffindor,” McGonagall says.

            “BLOOD TRAITOR!”

            I suddenly go flying against the wall—no, the suits of armour. I hit the floor in a surprised heap on top of a pile of metal.

            There’s a furious face screaming in mine, “You’ll end up just like your parents, you filthy Muggle loving TRAITOR—”

            Then it’s gone.

            I sit up, sighing. Of all the things I didn’t miss at Hogwarts over the summer, Bellatrix Lestrange topped the list.

            I realize that everything has gone dead silent. Well. I suppose they all heard that.

            I close my eyes a moment, then gather myself together. Picking up my bags, blushing hard as anything, I step out into the Great Hall.

            Every single person is looking at me. I want to shrivel. I want to disappear under that table and never be seen again. The house elves manage it, I don’t see why I shouldn’t. McGonagall is giving me an inscrutable look. I give her the weakest, most pathetic smile of my life, hoping it conveys all my embarrassment and regret.

            She turns back to the students, saying evenly, “As I stated earlier, Neville Longbottom, Professor of Herbology, will be Head of Gryffindor starting this term.”

            The room breaks into applause. Some of the Gryffindors stand up, clapping with all their might. I give a quick nod, wanting this agony to end.

            “Neville.” I look over. Aida’s hissed at me. She pushes out the chair beside her, and I gratefully dart over to it, shoving my bags beneath the table. She gives me an amused look, and I shrug, chagrined.

            McGonagall turns back to the book, unflappable as ever. “Natalia Bologna.”

            Aida leans over and says under her breath, “You’re bleeding.” She flicks a finger towards my cheek.

            I dab at it with my fingers as another child steps forward. “That could be from flying through a flock of birds, falling off my broom, or Bellatrix.”

            “You always love making an entrance.”

            “I do not,” I say as McGonagall announces, “Slytherin.” The little girl looks crestfallen. She stands there a moment, like she doesn’t know what to do, then shuffles off towards the Slytherin table with her head down.

            “What’s your excuse this time?” Aida whispers as Richard Brosh is called.

            “Take your pick,” I reply while the Hufflepuffs cheer. “Did you hear about the MA protesting at the Ministry?”

            “They what?”

            Professor Flitwick gives us a glare, and I swallow, apologetic. “I’ll tell you about it later,” I tell Aida. McGonagall calls for Fawaz Burlaza, and I’m hit with a sudden thought. “ _Shit_.”

            Professor Flitwick turns to me and squeaks quietly, “Professor _Longbottom_ —”

            “I’m so sorry, I’ll be quiet, I realized I forgot something—”

            We both turn to clap as Fawaz Burlaza is sorted into Ravenclaw. Only I’m thinking about Aberforth’s broom. I just left it out there. I don’t even know what happened to it. For all I know, it could have flown off into the lake. Maybe the merfolk have it. Maybe the giant squid has it.

            What would the merfolk do with a broom? Do they clean their homes? If they do, what do they do it with? Not a broom, surely—

            I realize McGonagall hasn’t called out the next name. She’s looking down at the book on the podium, over her glasses. I see her pass a hand over the page. It’s almost as if she’s stalling.

            McGonagall raises her head and says in a steady voice, “Lavinia Carrow.”

            It doesn’t register at first. It’s just another name. But then I see the girl separate from the group of new students, and her face is so familiar that my arm jerks out, knocking over Aida’s water glass.

            She’s older than the others. Thirteen maybe? She’s stocky, with an upturned nose, and mousy brown hair that falls to her shoulders. She looks…she looks like them.

            She steps forward, biting her lower lip, gazing up at McGonagall.

            I realize, slowly, and all too quickly, what is about to happen next.

            McGonagall takes a few seconds, and without looking at the book, says what she has to. “Gryffindor.”

            A sick feeling spreads through my entire body.

            The Carrows have returned to Hogwarts.


	10. Chapter 10

Before I can knock on the door, a voice says, “Come in.”

            Opening the door, I step into the Headmistress’ office. It’s late. I’ve gotten the students to the tower, thrown my things in my room, and submitted to Madam Pomfrey healing the cut on my cheek. Still, it’s taken far too long for me to get here.

            McGonagall sits behind the desk, hat nowhere to be seen, grey braid pulled over her shoulder. The office is mostly dark, save a single lamp and a low fire in the hearth.

            I come to stand in front of her, unable to speak. She gazes back at me over her glasses.

            Finally, I ask, “What happened?”

            McGonagall lowers her eyes. Her hands are folded on the desk. I see her hands flex. “I considered discussing the matter with the other professors, but I realized it would be pointless.” I sink into one of the chairs, slumping. “Hogwarts is not in the habit of denying a child entry, regardless of their lineage.”

            “I didn’t think there were any Carrows left in Britain.”

            “There weren’t. They scattered to the winds. Apparently Appolonia kept the girl on the move for years. When it was time for her to start school, she went to Ilvormorny.”

            “And?”

            “And what?”

            “And what happened there?”

            “Nothing. At least not in the way one would think.” McGonagall picks up a folder, like she was anticipating this conversation. I may not even be the first teacher to come in. “I’ve spoken at length to the Headmaster of Ilvormorny. According to all reports, Lavinia Carrow is a dedicated student. Her teachers have never had a complaint about her, beyond a reluctance to make friends. Her grades are exemplary—particularly in Herbology.”

            “Great,” I say quietly, before I can stop myself.

            “She has for some time been quite vocal regarding her desire to return to Britain. To be a student at Hogwarts. She went to the Headmaster of her own accord to discuss the matter with him. He opened communications with me in June to see if it was a possibility.”

            “Why—why in Merlin’s name would she want to come here?”

            “She claims because it’s the best school in the world.”

            I let out a bark. McGonagall raises a thin eyebrow at me, and I’m about to backpedal when I decide against it. “You know what I mean.”

            “I’m not sure we should be so quick to judge a 13-year-old girl on the basis of something that happened before she was born.” Only there’s not much conviction to her voice.

            I trace one of the scars across my face. “Alecto gave me this. Amycus—he spit in your face.” The thought of that fills me with such fury that I can’t continue.

            “Amycus is dead. Alecto will never leave Azkaban. Their niece has injured neither of us.”

            “Disciplinary records?” I ask.

            McGonagall shakes her head. “None. She’s never had so much as a detention.” She sighs. “Neville—”

            “All right, so she’s smarter than her relatives. I just…”

            One of the portraits, I don’t even know his name, says indignantly, “Would you deny my descendant the right to a world class education on the basis of a scratch?”

            Turning to him, I say, “A _scratch_? These are the ones I couldn’t heal. These are only the ones on my face. They tortured _students_ —”     

            “Enough, Longbottom,” McGonagall says, and I slouch back in my seat. “I wanted to let you know in advance, but you were not here on the 28th. Or before sorting. So you found out the way you did. Now we just have to move forward.”

            _What do you hate about teaching?_

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I want to be—the kind of man who doesn’t judge a person because of their background. Only—sometimes it’s easier said than done. I’m sorry that I can’t be completely open minded on the subject, but I won’t let it interfere with my treatment of anyone. I won’t let you down.”

            Neither of us say anything a moment.

            McGonagall pushes back from the desk and goes to a globe with the constellations inscribed across it. She cracks it open, revealing—well then. Several glasses and bottles inside. Taking out the stopper, she pours brown liquid into two glasses, then picks them up. She gives me one, and once it’s in my hand, clinks her glass to mine.

            She sits down in the chair beside me, and lifts the glass to her mouth, drinking without hesitation. I give her a sideways glance, then have a sip.

            That—is some _scotch_. Wow.

            “She resembles them,” McGonagall says quietly. We both look at the tall chair behind the desk, illuminated by the fireplace.

            “She does,” I agree. I have another drink. “When the parents find out…”

            “I know. But we’ve gone through this before. Rookwood, Brult—people made a lot of noise then as well.”

            “The Carrows mean something very different to Hogwarts.”

            “I’m well aware of that. We have to be careful right now, Neville. If we turned her away, we’d be facing some harsh claims of hypocrisy, and as much as the people saying those things may disturb us, they wouldn’t be wrong.”

            I let out a grunt.

            “You were at the Ministry today.”

            “You heard.”

            “The Minister wanted to be sure nothing similar happened here. How was it?”

            “It was all I could do not to punch some of them in the face. There were—there were people who fought with us in the war. Padma Patil was there, holding a sign talking about Ravenclaw for Ravenclaws or some such nonsense. These are people who know what happens when this goes on—they know, don’t they?”

            “They don’t, Neville. That’s the problem.”

            “Dean was there. You know, of our year, he’s the only one who stayed an Auror.”

            “I would have never thought it, given his propensity for explosions. Have you followed the news these past few weeks?”

            “I should have, I just—like you said. I tried to have a real honest vacation before this all started.”

            “It’s getting worse,” McGonagall says bluntly. “ _The Daily Prophet_ ran a piece by Leroq. They published a counterpoint as well, but the fact that they put his rubbish in the paper to begin with—and there might be a problem with one of the seats on the Wizengamot. We’ll have to see how that develops.”

            At a loss, I say, “It won’t really…it can’t get like _that_ again, can it? People do some stupid things, but they can’t already forget.”

            McGonagall casts me an almost pitying look. “It _will_ happen again. If it’s not the Magical Alliance, it will be someone else. That’s just…the way of it, unfortunately.”

            “I don’t…I can’t accept that.”

            “When I was born, Neville, the world was at war. Not just the magical world, but the regular one as well. Wars that killed millions of people. Wars waged by madmen who believed in the same things that we see over and over again—superiority of one people over another. The regulars defeated their madmen, Dumbledore defeated ours. I remember my mother being so relieved, so excited. My father, though—he said, wait. Wait until the next tyrant rises. None of us believed it could happen again. Not after everything that happened. Thirty years later, the Dark Lord began his crusade. And we were all so shocked.” McGonagall shakes her head at me. “It will happen again, Neville. I can only hope I won’t be alive when it does.”

            She empties her glass. Shaken, I repeat, “I cannot accept that.”

            McGonagall leans forward, setting her glass on the desk. “I know. That is why, everything willing, you will be Headmaster when it happens again.”

            She pushes herself up, taking her empty glass back to the globe.

            Cradling my scotch, I say, “That’s—that’s the second time you’ve said something about me being Headmaster one day.”

            “The first time seemed to shock you so much that it didn’t seem prudent to bring it up again too soon.”

            “You can’t—you can’t really be serious, can you?”

            Of all the things to ask McGonagall. I mean what I said, because what she’s saying is absolutely barmy, but I don’t know that there’s ever been a time when she wasn’t serious.

            McGonagall takes a deep breath. “I—am afraid I might have contributed to this image that you have of yourself. If that is the case, I rather regret it.”

            “What?”

            “I will be honest with you, Neville. Your grandmother told me that you were awkward and not particularly talented, and first impressions were not kind to you. I was sharp with you, because I liked your parents. I respected them, and I didn’t see much of you in them. No one at this school thought you would live up to them, so we didn’t give you the support we gave some other students. Certain students. Pomora was the only one to see your potential, so it’s of no surprise that you flourished in her class. We were all so concerned about the Dark Lord, about Harry Potter, that none of us had the patience for a little boy who never had the right answer and who looked too much like his mother for comfort.

            “And yet. With no help from any of the adults in your life, you created a resistance to the Death Eaters. You kept your classmates alive. You stood before the Dark Lord and you stood your ground, then you killed a piece of him. You did that on your own. And so I have to wonder, Neville Longbottom—what would you have accomplished if you hadn’t been alone?”

            I’m bright red. Of course I am.

            McGonagall returns to her tall chair. “One day you will be Headmaster of this school. I will feel safer, knowing that, and I will do everything in my power to help you along the way. All I ask is that you try to be on time occasionally and not embarrass yourself.”

            Better. I can handle that. “Yes ma’am.”

            “You should return to Gryffindor. I’m sure you’ll be busier than you imagine over the next few days.”

            “Next few years,” I say mournfully. I swallow the last of my scotch, which makes me cough. Setting the glass on the desk, I push myself up. “Goodnight, Headmistress.”

            “Goodnight, Professor Longbottom.” When I’m nearly at the door, she adds, “Perhaps we should all learn a lesson about not judging based on preconceived notions.”

            I take a deep breath. “I’ll do my best.”

            McGonagall nods and says, “I know you will.”

 

I fall back against my door to close it.

            Blimey. What…a fucking day.

            I kick my shoes off first, with no idea where they land in the dark. Next, I pull my robes over my head. They get stuck, and I struggle a moment, making a helpless noise and trying not to fall over. Once I’ve got them off, I toss them aside. I can figure everything out when it’s daytime.

            My bedroom is oddly clean. The house elves must have got at it while I was gone. Usually it’s such a mess that not even they can fix everything. I have to admit, it’s nice coming home to a made up bed.

            I go to Ruby, rubbing an affectionate hand over her leathery leaves. “Hello love,” I murmur. She shivers and lets out a minty scent. She’s the only one of my plants hearty enough to survive without me. The rest I brought along to look after.

            I want more than anything to fall onto bed and get a solid eight hours. But I should really check in on my collection. I took such a tumble off the broom—

            The broom. Damn it.

            Tomorrow. I’m shirtless, I’m not going to get dressed just to go searching in the dark for a thing that’s probably in the Black Lake. Best to just take my potions and go to sleep.

            I pick up my carrying case and haul it over to the bed. Unlocking it, I take up my wand. “ _Lumos_ ,” I sigh, and the tip lights. Leaning forward, I have a look down the stairs to make sure that things haven’t fallen.

            _Rosa acicularis_.

            Gently, I reach down, and pick up the single flower left on the top step. Wildrose.

            Sitting down on the bedside, I smile a little to myself, and for awhile, I just look at the pink petals of a flower past its season.


	11. Chapter 11

Monday is easier than expected.

            I’m met at my office first thing by two eager faces and a reluctant one. Gulbahar Nalci stands on tiptoes as soon as I come around the corner, and I raise a hand. “Don’t tell me.” I hold up the scroll already in my hand. “Date and time for the tryouts. Yes, I will be in attendance, no, I will have no idea what’s going on, but yes, I will cheer my very loudest.”

            She takes the parchment with a grin. “Thanks, Professor.” She darts away without anything else said. She’s an absolutely deadly seeker, and if it weren’t for that boy on the Ravenclaw team last year—who’s been bloody scouted—we would have had the House Cup. I rather suspect we will this year with Gulbahar as our captain.

            I turn my gaze on Augustine and Evangeline Pluck. They’re slender twins with heterochromia and nearly translucent skin, but the resemblance is only skin deep. He stands straight and meets my eyes, she has crossed arms and tightly pursed lips. The only reason they’re in the same House is because there are seven— _seven_ —Plucks in a single year.

            “Prefects,” I say, before unlocking my office door.

            I came in yesterday to make sure nothing had been killed or killed anything else. The carnage has been taken care of. Hagrid apologized for not being able to keep better control of things—he was rather in a daze when he said, “I’ve seen a lot ‘ter things, Longbottom, but no plants like _that_ ”—and I don’t blame him for the mess. My office is not far from the greenhouse, considerably further from Gryffindor than I’d like, but it suits me fine.

            I set my satchel by the desk and sit down. “Have a seat.”

            They look at the rolling chairs Arthur gave me as a present, then awkwardly sit down. Evangeline figures it out first, scooting closer using her tiptoes. Augustine tries to be more dignified about it, but he starts to go in circles.

            “So!” I say brightly. “How were your summers?”

            “Excellent, sir,” Augustine says, righting himself. “We went on holiday to the Giant’s Causeway. Fascinating stuff.” He always sounds about thirty years older than he ought to. He was a no brainer for prefect—he either belongs to every club or has started one, and attends every school event with favours in all the Gryffindor colours for the crowd.

            Evangeline is less outgoing. I don’t think she belongs to a single club. To be honest, I don’t think I’ve seen her with another person save Olive Gruyere, and I can never see the two of them without thinking about olives and cheese. But Evangeline has the highest marks of her class by far. I think McSweeney chose well—the mix of enthusiasm and realism will be a good thing.

            “Can I say again, sir, congratulations on the appointment. Good show.”

            His sister looks at Augustine with a mixture of disbelief and abject disgust. I have no siblings, but I recognize it’s a look such relations only have for one another. It radiates ‘how am I related to you.’

            He’ll be in government someday. No avoiding it. Best to tolerate him now. “That’s very kind, Augustine. There’s a great deal of hard work ahead of all three of us, and I’d like to thank you both in advance for all your help this year.”

            Evangeline sinks even lower in her seat.

            “Quidditch tryouts will be next Monday—”

            “I’ve already made posters, sir, I was just waiting for the date.”

            “Thank you, Augustine. Now, there’s this.” I push a piece of parchment across the table. “This is the schedule that’s been worked out for night watch. And below are the times I expect you in the Common Room to tutor the first years.”

            Evangeline sighs, and Augustine leans forward to look at it. There’s a quick grimace, but then he sits back with a smile. “I’ll make it work, sir.”

            “I’m sure you will. Evangeline, I know you have no desire to be a prefect, but I need to be sure you’re going to give this your best effort.”

            “Of course she will, sir—” Augustine says.

            “I wasn’t speaking to you,” I say as gently as I can. He clears his throat and sits back. “Evangeline.”

            The girl says quietly, “I’ll do my best, Professor.”

            “I know it will be some extra work, but let’s be realistic—it’s only a year. Next year Yiu Huang will be Head Girl, and you won’t have to worry about it. But this will look quite nice when you’re applying to jobs after school. You don’t have to enjoy it, you just have to put in the time. All right?”

            She nods. “Yes sir.”

            “Excellent. So?” I glance at Augustine, dreading the deluge I’m about to hear. “Anything you want to tell me so far?”

            Like the born gossip he is, Augustine launches into all the goings-on of his housemates. I have no idea where the notion that women are born gossips came from. They’ve never had to sit across from a particular brand of wizard who likes to think they know a little more than everyone else.

            Evangeline droops lower and lower in her seat as Augustine tells me about which of the first year boys fought over the bed by the window, which of the boys cried the first night—“But I told him to be a brave little wizard about it, sir, and he bucked right up”—the items from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes he’s confiscated. I pretend to be interested in it all, even though only one out of ten things he says is worth noting.

            Patience is a skill one needs when herbology is their vocation.

            When I begin to suspect that he might never run out of steam, I say, “Very good, Augustine. That was quite—thorough.” I turn to his sister. “Evangeline, how have people been with Lavinia?”

            She goes still and says nothing.

            Augustine leans forward. “Well, sir, it’s a strange situation, but—”

            I smile at him as kindly as I can. “Augustine, there seems to be a misunderstanding. When I ask your sister a question, looking directly at her and saying her name, it’s her that I’d like to hear from. All right?” His pale cheeks pinken, and he sits back, giving a reluctant nod. “Evangeline. How has everyone been with Lavinia?”

            It takes a few more seconds, but Evangeline says curtly, “Fine, sir.”       

            Oh dear. “Have you had a chance to speak to her?”

            She looks appalled. “No.”

            “Have any of the girls said anything about her?”

            Evangeline shrugs. “She’s no better than she ought to be.”

            Augustine rushes in. “What she means to say, Professor—”

            With a sigh, I say, “Yes, _thank you,_ Augustine. I’d like to speak to your sister alone a moment. Thank you for your time and your enthusiasm. Best get along now.”

            He sits there a moment, then glances at his sister, despairing, like now he’s worried that she’ll embarrass him. But Augustine Pluck is not the kind of boy to disobey a teacher, or any authority figure. Again, this one will go far. With a faint smile, he stands up. “Thank you for your time, sir. Looking forward to tomorrow’s class, sir.”

            I nod, and wait patiently as he walks out the door, giving his sister a worried look before the latch snicks shut after him.

            That leaves me and Evangeline.

            “How’s Maximillian doing these days?”

            Evangeline looks at the edge of the desk when she answers. “Good. They just had another baby.”

            “Good heavens. That’s what—four now?” She gives a slight nod. I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms. “Your brother and I go back a ways. Your oldest, anyways. Your sister was only a first year when I came back for my eighth year here, and I’ve never met Darius. But Maximillian and I—he’s a good man. He was a very brave young man. And I know that—” I hold up my left hand. “This doesn’t work all that well because of what the Carrows did when they caught him. He was always a bit chatty—like Augustine there. So I’m sure he’s told you plenty about the Carrows. And I’m telling you now, that if you let that colour your view of Lavinia, you do not belong in Gryffindor.”

            Evangeline glances at me, stricken.

            “We may not sort based on a certain set of characteristics anymore, but that does not mean Gryffindor does not stand for the same values it always has. Above all: fairness. Lavinia has relatives who did terrible things in the war. But the magical community is so intermarried and intertwined that there’s no one who can say they don’t have relatives who didn’t do something terrible during the war. Myself, my third cousins are the Sykes, and the whole lot will be in Azkaban until the end of time. Does that affect how you see me?”

            “No sir.”

            “Listen—I know you just said that because it’s the answer I want to hear. I know that everything I ask you to do, you’ll just give me the answer you think I want to hear so you can get out of here faster. I was a teenager myself approximately a million years ago, which I know is what every adult says when they want to relate to you. So now I’m just talking myself around in circles.” I think about it a moment. “What really bothers me is what you just said. ‘She’s no better than she ought to be.’ That’s a phrase middle aged and elderly people use when they don’t want to bother to understand someone. When they think they’re above them. I don’t know where you got that from, but I know it wasn’t your mum and dad. They’ve never gone on like they’re better than anyone, have they?”

            She looks absolutely miserable, and I know I’m mucking this up, but I’m going to have this conversation more than once, I can just feel it. I might as well get used to it. “No sir.”

            “No, they certainly haven’t. And I don’t want you to get the impression that I’m upset with you, I’m just—a bit disappointed. You’re clever. You’re very clever. And if I’d asked you if you were the type of person to think they were better than someone else, just because of where they came from, I like to think you’d say no. The attitude you’ve just shown about Lavinia, how do you think that fits in with that impression?”

            Evangeline swallows and says, “It doesn’t.”

            “No. I daresay it doesn’t.”        

            I sit back. I don’t say anything.

            It’s a trick Madam Hooch taught me. “Silence,” she said. “The great communicator. The great discomfort. Force a person into silence and they’ll tell you everything you need and more.”

            We get to seven seconds before Evangeline says, “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll…”

            She doesn’t know. She knows what she should say, but she’s not a liar either, and I like that. I’m not going to let her off the hook, though. Do that and no lesson will be learned. “You’ll what?”

            Evangeline takes a moment, then says quietly, “I’ll make sure no one’s…being unkind to Lavinia.”

            “Excellent,” I say. I nod to the door. “All I wanted to hear. You can go.”

            Evangeline stares at me a moment, then flees. She’s so quick to leave that she doesn’t even close the door after herself.

            Well. That was painful. Now I’ll just need to listen to my own advice.

 

There may be nowhere I’m more comfortable than the greenhouse. I think it may go back to when I was a teenager. This was the first place where anyone made me feel like I might know what I was talking about, like I understood what was happening around me.

            The windows are mostly cloudy from dirt and oxygen, a thing no spell would clear away, nor would I want it to. It’s always humid. The building breathes and I breathe with it. It’s green and brown and no one leaves here without flecks of dirt on their trousers.

            The books I keep here are all curling. I have to spell them to repel the bugs. I haven’t had to bring them out much, not after the first few months. I know it all like the back of my hand anyway, and much as books teach you, you have to really get in with your hands.

            My first class of the week is fourth years, Gryffindors. They shuffle in a few minutes before class starts. This may be the only occasion all year that I’m on time for the first lesson of the day. Rubbing my hands together with anticipation, I say again and again, “Hello! Come on in! Good to see all your faces! Come on in!”

            Once the last person is in, I’m faced with a few dozen wary, excited, and indifferent teenagers.

            I clap, and say, “What say we start the year with bubotuber pus, shall we?”

            They largely lean back from me as one in disgust. That’s all right. They’ll come around.

 

I come home from work at the end of the day with dirt smudged everywhere. My nose, my fingernails, my robes. I scrub until I’m pink and shining, take my potions, then I drop into bed with a smile, feeling quietly accomplished.

            Mondays are usually good days.

           

Tuesday…is more trying.

            You shouldn’t let one person get the best of you. I know that. I’m a grown man, with more than a few life experiences under my belt. I know that allowing one person to ruin a thing for you is a choice you make. It’s in my control, how I perceive people’s behaviour towards me.

            Intellectually, I know that.

            I wish I could say I don’t cringe every time I think of how I have Ravenclaw sixth years first thing on Tuesdays.

            As they file in, this mixture of Ravenclaws and Gryffindors, I see that distinctive blonde head stay towards the back. There he is. The little prick.

            I know I shouldn’t think about my students like that. And I don’t. All except the one. Trust me, he’s more than deserved the title.

            Wulfric Brult stands upright with crossed arms, the kind of boy who you’d usually see leaning against a wall but who complains loudly and frequently about how filthy it is in here. Asking why the house elves don’t do a better job of cleaning it. How anyone could want to be in some place so dirty must be a lunatic.

            It’s a fucking greenhouse. Of course it’s dirty.

            He reminds me of Malfoy. Not the man I met in New York. No, the boy who tortured me for the sheer pleasure of it. Wulfric goes everywhere with his own two cronies, only he’s taller than they are, and he’s got the kind of handsomeness that will disguise a lot of the ugliness for a certain sort of person. This might be the first time I’ve seen him without them, because the two of them got Dreadful on their OWLs, unsurprisingly. This one somehow pulled an Acceptable out of his arse. The one consolation is that I’ve only got to put up with him for another two years.

            Two years. Tamsin’s tits.

            Get it together, Neville. These are your NEWT students. They chose to be here.

            I take a deep breath and smile. “Hello everyone, and welcome to your first NEWT level Herbology class. I’m so happy to see you all.” The vast majority of you, at least. “This year, we’ll be looking at several fascinating plants and fungi, and using all manner of new protective gear—I hope you’ve brought your gloves, Mabel.”

            She waves a sheepish hand as the other students giggle. Inside joke.

            “You know me, I like to jump right in. So why don’t we—” I start to gesture to the room next door, where the snapping lilies are all set up for them.

            Wulfric says, “It’s too early in the day for those dangerous things.”

            He doesn’t seem to say it to anyone. His friends aren’t around for it. He says it just loudly enough that he could pretend I wasn’t supposed to hear it, but everyone does. The other students all go uncomfortable and stiff. Wulfric has an amazing ability to make everyone in a room get tense.

            I could ignore it, but I just don’t like bullies.

            Folding my hands together, I smile at him grimly. “Wulfric. I know we’ve discussed this before. Please don’t interrupt me or your other professors when we’re speaking.”

            He gives me a look of contempt veiled as innocence. “I wasn’t.”

            “You were. Since you’ve stopped class—in record time, I might add—what is it that you want to say?”

            Wulfric gives an insolent shrug. “Nothing.”

            “Hmm. Well, on an unrelated note, a reminder that none of you are compelled to take this course now that you’re in your sixth year. Some of you require it for your future careers, but admittedly, herbology is not for everyone. So anyone who might be reconsidering their enrollment, now would be the time to address your class list with your Head of House. For everyone else! This year will be filled with all kinds of interesting, horrifying, wonderful new specimens that will keep you on your toes. If that scares you? Go tend the grubs out back with the first years.” I nod towards the lilies. “Everyone who’s not a coward, follow me.”

            Before I lead them through the greenhouse, I see Wulfric glaring at me with absolute hatred.

            Twenty minutes in, he ‘accidentally’ bends the stem of his lily in half.

 

“I can’t believe I have another two years of this,” I mutter, violently stabbing at my potatoes.

            “If it had been me, with a professor _I_ hated,” Aida says, flicking raisins out of her salad, “I would have dropped it the first chance I had.”

            “Why didn’t he?” asks Herman. He’s one of the new professors. Study of Magical Runes. He’s a large fellow with a missing ear. No one would know, but he keeps his long brown hair pulled back. I half think it’s so people ask about the ear. I haven’t.

            “Apparently he has a job lined up with a potion maker in Czechoslovakia.” I sigh, glancing over the Great Hall. I can pick Wulfric out easily at the Ravenclaw table, with his yellow hair. Back with his friends, making them smirk at some story he’s telling. “They’ve regulations there. Seven years of herbology, or no luck.”

            “He’s shit in my class as well,” Aida says, our resident potions master, “so I can only imagine how he swung that. I was shocked as you were by the Acceptable. I still think galleons changed hands.”

            Wulfric looks over, right at us, from half the hall away. “I think he heard you,” Herman remarks, reaching across me for the salt.

            “He just assumes people are always talking about him,” Aida replies. She’s a witch about as wide as she is tall, with black fluffy hair in a halo that defies gravity. She’s always in purple robes, and she’s my closest friend at Hogwarts.

            “He didn’t have to do that to the lily,” I say, looking right back at Wulfric. He just blinks once at me, then turns back to his friends. “Five years old, finally starting to really bloom. He snapped it in half just to be miserable.”

            “You took points, yeah?”

            “First I had to take this year. He tried to argue with me about it, so detention as well. Last thing I want to do is spend Saturday evening with…that.”

            Herman snorts. “First time I’ve seen you this upset about anything, Longbottom.”

            “Yeah, well, just be glad he’s not in your class.”

            “What are his parents like?”

            I let out a short laugh. “Haven’t had the privilege, thank heavens.”

            Aida leans forward. “You don’t remember the Brults?”

            “Can’t say as I do. I’m only just back in Britain. Spent most of the last few decades on the continent.”

            Aida nods back over her shoulder. Not in a particular direction, just _away_. “Death Eaters, the both of them. Life in Azkaban.”

            Herman’s face shuts down. “Death Eaters.” We both nod. He looks back across the hall. “I hate Death Eaters.”

            We all hate Death Eaters. But there’s that something extra in his voice. Aida and I glance at one another, then Aida says, “What do the runes say about my chances of winning Witch Weekly’s Autumn Lottery, Herman? I want to leave this all behind and buy an island.”

            I find Wulfric looking at me again. I go back to my food.

            Worst thing about teaching indeed.

 

Wednesday. Time to finally…all right.

            When it’s time for my Gryffindor third years to come to class, Lavinia is one of the first through the door. She comes right to the front, clutching a fuzzy pink pen in one hand and a notebook in the other. The notebook has sparkles and a unicorn splashed across it.

            I do my best not to look directly at her, but if I don’t look at a student at the front of class, that’s not much better. So I let my eyes float over the group as they all file in, studying her from my peripheral vision.

            She’s built like her aunt, solid, short. Her hair is a mousy shade that’s been pulled back in a messy bun. She has the Carrow nose, upturned. It’s kinder on her face than her relatives—it makes her look friendly instead of…well, I don’t want to think it. She has brown eyes and pale skin with freckles, and a fairly vicious looking scrape on the back of the hand holding her pen.

            She’s a child. She’s not them. She’s not them. She’s a child.

            Once the last of the stragglers are inside, I clap my hands. “Finally—my third years, back in my clutches. I hope you’re all ready and in the spirit of school after your summer away. I am very excited to start another year with you, and we are going to learn all sorts of weird and wonderful things. A warning now—I know this is the last class of your day and that you’ve all just come from History of Magic. Regardless, if anyone falls asleep, I’ll feed you to Azrael.”

            I gesture to the giant venus fly trap quietly snoring in the corner. There are some titters, and I hear Boylan Druth mutter, “I might as well feed my stupid rat to the thing.”

            That gets more laughs. “Don’t be too harsh on old Ebenezer,” I say. “Isn’t he the one who bites you in the morning to wake you up?”

            Boylan holds up his hand, which is covered in scars. “Yeah, and I wish he’d stop.”

            “Boylan, you really should talk to Professor Routh. I’m starting to think Ebenezer might be a touch neurotic. Anyways, now that we’ve said our hellos to Azrael and discussed the mental health of rats, time to get started.”

            I open a cupboard, gently reaching in with both hands. Slipping my hands beneath the roots, I lift the Djibouti xiddig out, then turn to show it to the class.

            “Not too impressive at the moment, is it,” I say with affection. It looks like a little dead shrub with thick black roots coming through the soil. “But remember—looks are not always synonymous with usefulness, in herbology as in life.”

            I bring my face down close to the dried branches, so deceptive, so sly.

            “Bloom, my lovely,” I say.

            The shrub comes to full life. In seconds, it unfurls, branches turning a warm brown, leaves and petals erupting from every surface. The blooms are all in rainbow, bright primary colours. It increases in weight, twisting into place full and glorious.

            “Neat,” someone says.

            Looking up at a greenhouse full of interested faces, I say, “Five points if anyone can tell me what this rare beauty is.”

            Lavinia’s hand shoots up in the air.

            She likes herbology. I’ve not forgotten. “Lavinia,” I acknowledge.

            “Foster’s rainbow,” she says.

            I furrow my brow. It takes me a moment, but then I remember. “Ah. Well, that’s what they call it in America, as I recall. A man named Foster brought a number of plants from northeastern Africa back to America and named them all after himself, claiming to have discovered them. Of course, whenever someone in the western world tells you they’ve discovered something, what are they really?”

            About three quarters of the students say loudly, “Bloody liars!”

            It cracks me up, the way it always does. “Too right.” Lavinia looks mortified, blushing deeply. “Of course, Foster’s rainbow _is_ one of the names for this, so five points to Gryffindor. Thank you, Lavinia. The name we’ll be calling it by is the one they call it in the region it’s from. The xiddig, or Djibouti star. We’re going to be growing these this year. You’re all very lucky—this is the first time we’ve ever grown these at Hogwarts. I have just enough seeds that we should be able to do this in groups of two. I want you all to pair up, and we’ll dive right in.”

            I whisper again to the xiddig, and it pulls up instantly into itself. Carrying it back to the cupboard, I gingerly set it down on its mound of soil.

            “What does it do, Professor?” a loud voice calls. That’ll be Erica Ribbins.

            “It’s beautiful,” I reply, turning around and brushing my hands off on my robe. “One of the great fallacies of the world is everything needs a use. The xiddig is beautiful. It doesn’t need to be anything else.” I glance around the greenhouse. “Are we all set? Everyone has a partner? If you don’t have a partner, raise your hand, please.”

            I could sigh. Again, Lavinia lifts her hand. This time, though, it is hesitant, uncomfortable. I finally realize that no one is standing next to her. They’ve all kept a few steps between her and them, separating her from the herd.

            “All right, that’s one—who else?” I wait, but no one else raises their hand. “Come on, now. This class has an even number of students. Who doesn’t have a partner?”

            There’s some shuffling, but I get a roomful of blank stares and closed mouths.

            “Who’s grouped into three?” I ask. Sometimes you have to ask every possible question before they give in. Teenagers. They’ll find every loophole possible. That finally sees some movement. I see some people glancing at a little group of girls. Cece Morrow, Abda Ammala, and Courtney Jane are trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. “Cece, Abda, Courtney—which of you is partnering with Lavinia?”

            They all look repulsed.

            I put my hands on my hips and raise my brows. “I think I was fairly straightforward, saying pairs and not trios. You’re holding up class. You’ve five seconds before I choose for you.”

            They look at each other, having a silent conversation while I count in my mind. Lavinia seems to be shrinking.

            “All right, Courtney, come up here, you’re with Lavinia. Cece, you’re with Dawn, Abda, you’re with Michael. Johnny, Gabrielle, you’ll have to team up. Remember, class, if you can’t make these decisions for yourselves, I’ll make them for you. Everyone in their pairs? Yes? Good. Let’s get to our work stations.”

           

“Professor?” a little voice asks.

            I glance up from the fountain, where I’m washing my hands. I half expected it (dreaded it), but I thought she might be like most 13-year-old girls and avoid her teachers at all costs. Lavinia stands by her station, notebook still in hand. She spent most of the class furiously writing notes and blushing every time Courtney blatantly ignored her.

            “Yes, Lavinia?” I reply. They’ve all just gone. It’s the last class of the day, and they should be getting back to the castle.

            Lavinia swallows, and says, “Would…would it be okay if I grew my xiddig by myself? I don’t…I don’t really mind if Courtney’s with her friends. I think I could…I could work on it alone.”

            She sounds vaguely American. Vaguely English. Vaguely continental. It’s hard to pin down her accent.

            I dry my hands on a rag by the fountain, then perch on the edge of the table. “Everyone’s in their groups now. We’ll be going forward as we are. You and Courtney will be fine together.”

            Lavinia looks down at the ground with a knotted brow. It seems like she’d beg to differ—I would as well—but there’s no going back. If I put those three girls back into a group, it’s ceding ground. It’s telling a group of teenagers that they’ll get what they want if they just pout hard enough. We will not be setting that precedent, thank you.

            And, of course, Lavinia needs a partner. That as well.

            “I’m sorry I got the question wrong. I shouldn’t have gotten points for it.”

            “I asked for the name of the plant, and you gave me one.”

            “Yeah, but it’s like if you asked who discovered America and I said Christopher Columbus.”

            “Who’s that?” I ask.

            She looks at me a moment, the way Muggle children will sometimes when an adult wizard has no idea what they’re saying. Then she coughs and says, “Nobody. It’s okay. Um—sorry.”

            “I’m not sure what you’re apologizing for.”

            Lavinia steps back. “Um…”

            She has no idea what to say, and I’m being cold. I’m not a cold man. I need to stop this, right now.

            “Is everything going all right?” I ask, softening my voice. “Is Hogwarts treating you well?”

            That completely changes her. For a moment, I don’t see her family in her at all. I just see a girl who is a touch dizzy with happiness, who can’t believe she’s gotten what she’s asked for. Like she’s woken into a dream. “I love it,” Lavinia says, unguarded.

            But then the look disappears, and I see there are already things she knows she can’t say. Battles that are only just beginning for her. Battles that might end swiftly, or that might follow her for life.

            “Good,” I say, standing. “I’m happy to hear that. You’d better get a move on. I’m sure you have more homework than you bargained for.”

            The smile she gives me would be so welcome from any other student, and I wish I could feel it more. “Okay. Thanks, Professor!”

            She gives a small wave with the hand holding her fluffy pen, then leaves the greenhouse with a bobbing, purposeful walk.

            I try to get back to work.

            I’m not a cold man. I’m not.


	12. Chapter 12

It took me a moment to get my bearings. I’d been thrown into the chair, and thrown into quite a few things before that. My head was all a muddle.

            A rough hand shoved me back against the chair. “Welcome back, Longbottom.”

            Right. Them.

            “Happy to see you two again,” I replied, grinning widely.

            Amycus slapped me across the face.

            It wasn’t the first time he’d hit me. He was the first adult man to hit me, though. In some ways, I’d gotten used to it. The first time he had done it, I’d been shocked. Not shocked that _he_ would resort to it, but shocked because it was a thing I’d never experienced before. My body hadn’t known what to do.

            At this point, however, I had realized he wasn’t all that strong. When he slapped me, it stung a moment, but not much more than that. They weren’t physically strong, either of the Carrows. They were much more dangerous with their wands.

            Alecto never bothered to strike me. She always had her wand in hand. She was standing behind her brother, looking at me with pure loathing. Her brother wasn’t fond of me, but Alecto—Alecto despised me.

            Blinking off the blow, I said to Amycus, “What will it be this time, Professor? Will I be writing lines? ‘I’m afraid of Muggles because I don’t understand them,’ a hundred times, or no supper.”

            “I’d watch that smart tongue, boy. Pretty soon it’s going to be cut out.”

            “By who? Your master? You ever told him what you think of Muggles? Him with his Muggle father?”

            Amycus shuddered away from me. His sister paled, and twisted her wand towards me. It looked like she wanted to stab it down into my eye.

            “You dare—you would tell such lies about the Dark Lord—”

            “Everyone knows. Every student, every witch and wizard between here and France, and you think shouting about it will change a thing?” I shook my head, singing, “Your master had a Muggle father—”

            Alecto slashed her wand through the air. Now that—that hurt. The trick was to get her angry, because when she was angry, she didn’t take the time to use hexes. She just wanted to cut me. Those could be healed easily, unlike when she was really paying attention.

            “You’ve survived this long because of your blood,” Amycus said. “But if you don’t tell us where they are, you won’t survive much longer.”

            “I’ll tell you the same thing I’ve been telling you for weeks—I’m not bowing to you or your master.”

            He shook his head slowly. “You say that—but when you’re standing before him—”

            “I’ll say the exact same thing.”

            “You’ll do no such thing,” Alecto spat out. “You will be just another scared child.”

            “Do I seem like just another scared child?”

            Her face curdled. “No.” She pushed the tip of her wand against my chest. “Do you know, some of us wondered how quickly you’d break. After all, your parents took hardly any prodding at all.”

            I glared at her. “Just do it, you old—”

            “But you, you just keep talk talk talking. I know a spell, little boy, that would stop up your mouth.”

            “Yes, but then we wouldn’t have these chats.”

            “You’ll break, Longbottom. Everyone breaks.”

            I smiled at her. “You might. I’ll be here _long_ after your bones are in Azkaban.” I shrugged. “So are you going to torture me or not, you old bat?”

            Alecto stepped back. “Gladly, Longbottom.”

            I took a deep breath. It never helped, but nothing did.

            “ _Crucio_!”

 

Wulfric lets out the world’s most put upon sigh, like he’s being tortured. I feel like I could tell him a tale or two about detention being actual torture, but I doubt he’d listen.

            It’s six o’clock on a Saturday evening, and all I really want to do is go around The Boar’s Head for a pint. The week was long but good, and the last way I want to cap it off is by spending it with a teenage boy who despises me for—I don’t know. Reasons?

            We’re in the greenhouse, him at a desk I transfigured out of—well, I shouldn’t say what I transfigured it from. I’m at a little table stowed away in a corner, carefully clipping away at my miniature yew. I’m in denims and a jumper, because it’s Saturday. Wulfric, he’s in his school robes. I have no idea why, if it’s supposed to be a statement.

            I should be spending my time catching up on my correspondence. There were three letters from Gran waiting for me when I returned to Hogwarts. I haven’t answered any of them. Pretty soon I’m going to get a Howler, regardless of being thirty-two years old and a Hogwarts professor.

            It can keep. I’d rather be working on my yew.

            Wulfric lets out another sigh. I’m aching for that pint.

            I have him copying out the same three paragraphs twenty times. The restorative uses of snapping lily. How their petals are used in a potion that will stave off infection. I don’t know, I know he’ll not learn anything, but I can’t put him to actual work around the greenhouse. He’d just break something from spite.

            Back at Hogwarts a week already. Hard to believe that a week ago, I was just running through the doors. And a few hours before that—

            A deep, miserable sigh.

            I put down my scissors. It will be like talking to a brick wall, but I am a teacher, and if I don’t make the effort, then what am I even doing?

            Turning, putting my back to the wall, I say, “Do you really want to do this all year?”

            Wulfric glances at me, like he’s done nothing to catch my attention. “I don’t know what you mean.”

            “Do you really want to spend every single Saturday in detention? After a certain point, it’s not going to only be Saturdays, it will be other nights. It’ll be the daytime on Saturday and Sunday. It will be like last year and the year before that all over again.”

            “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

            “You broke something because you were irritated with me.”

            “It was an accident,” Wulfric says, dead eyed.

            “Do you ever wonder what life would be like if you didn’t lie to every adult who crossed your path? Have you ever considered trying it, just for a day?” He gazes at me, like the words coming out of my mouth have no actual meaning. Like they’re only sounds. I rub at my temple. “Do you not want to go out for Quidditch this year?”

            He narrows his eyes.

            “I know both the beaters from Ravenclaw have gone on, and you seem keen on the sport. So are you going to try out for it?”

            “No.”

            “Really,” I say, surprised.

            His mouth curls. “Why would I want to play for Ravenclaw?”

            “It’s been your House for five years.” He sort of rolls his eyes, and now I have to try not to sigh. “I know you’ve never been keen on not being in Slytherin, but that’s just the way it turned out.”

            “My whole family was in Slytherin.”

            “You don’t need to be ashamed—”

            “I’m _not_ ,” Wulfric snaps. “I’m not ashamed of anything. I’m just in the wrong House, because of these stupid rules. But they won’t be around much longer, will they.”

            I look at him. “What do you mean?”

            He pauses. Looking like he’s said too much. Shrugging, Wulfric says, “Nothing.”

            I can’t say that I’m surprised. It’s just frustrating to see someone so young make such stupid, stupid decisions. “So you think the MA are going to swing in and clean house, do you?” The sly look he gives me tells me he thinks that’s exactly what’s going to happen. “The MA has quite the distance to go before they can give the Death Eaters a run for their money, and it took the Death Eaters twenty-five years to get into Hogwarts, before they were thrown out in less than one. If you want to throw in your lot with them, I hope you’re ready to be patient and disappointed.”

            Wulfric says, “The MA aren’t Death Eaters.”

            Yes, the lack of conviction there is really encouraging. “We both believe that about as much as we both believe you accidentally broke that lily. So—what, Wulfric? You think that old fashioned sorting comes back, what else will happen? How will that make things better?”

            “The right people will be where they’re supposed to be.”

            “And that will just fix everything.”

            “It’d be better than it is now.”

            I raise my shoulders. “Listen—I would love to think that I can convince you. That I can make you see the light. But you’re young, and you’re naïve, and you think that things can be fixed. You don’t snap your fingers and make everything exactly how you want it.”

            He’s bristling. “I’m not naïve.”

            “You think that?”

            “I know that.”

            “Then tell me how you think going down this path gets you anywhere other than Azkaban in ten years time.”

            I’d like to flatter myself and think there’s a momentary glimmer in his eye. That maybe I shake him for even a second. But that would be a lie.

            “There’s a lot of good people in Azkaban,” Wulfric says.

            At that, he seems to finally realize his misstep. But he’s said it, and he’s too stubborn to say that he didn’t mean it. Instead, he just curls his hand into a fist and scowls.

            I inhale through my nose. “I don’t know about there being good people in Azkaban. I only know that every person who’s in there made the choice to be there. They chose to be there rather than out here. Chose that over everything. Husbands, wives—children.”

            That was cruel. It was cruel, and he’s sixteen, and—agh. I’m making a bloody mess of things.

            He’s getting blooms of red on his cheeks. If this goes on, it’s going to get ugly. It’s too early in the year for things to get ugly.

            I nod towards the door. “You know what? Go on. I know you’re not listening, and we’ll be doing this every single weekend until next summer, so you might as well go early this time.”

            Wulfric shoves the desk away, nearly knocking it over, then storms off without another word or look in my direction.

            Fuck it. Time for that pint.

 

 The Boar’s Head doesn’t look like any other building in Hogsmeade. The rest are quaint and wizardly and homey. The Boar’s Head rises two storeys above all the others, crooked, on the edge of town. It looks blackened by smoke. Nothing grows around it. The rare occasion I’ve seen it early in the day, the sun on it seems wrong. Like it was only ever meant to be viewed at night.

            The insides are not much better, and the owner seems to dislike the basic fact that customers are integral to his business model. Nevertheless, it’s the only place in Hogsmeade you’ll find me when I want to relax.

            “Cheers,” I say, raising my second pint.

            Aberforth coughs, low and phlegmy, then lifts his own half drunk glass. He downs another quarter before sitting back, gnarled hands working a little carving of some kind.

            I’m one of two people seated at the counter. It’s about as busy as it ever gets at The Boar’s Head, which is to say there’s about a dozen of us in a room that could comfortably house fifty. The woman down the counter wears a torn navy blue veil, nails tapping against a dusty cup of something purple and spitting.

            I drink, feeling a bit vague around the edges. I know most of the other teachers don’t leave Hogwarts on the weekends, but most of them are considerably older than I am. Aida’s closest in age to me, and she turned forty this past year. I see myself being at Hogwarts a long time—perhaps forever—but I don’t see myself as someone who’s comfortable never leaving the premises.

            “What do you remember about the Brults?” I ask Aberforth.

            He lets out a laugh or a cough, I’m not sure which. “That blond idiot giving you problems?”

            I shrug. It wouldn’t be politic to agree with the characterization of one of my students as an idiot.

            There’s a tic in Aberforth’s left cheek. It comes and goes. I’ve noticed it more lately. He’s getting old. I’m not sure how old he is, but he moves slower than he used to. Admittedly, though, he could still throw me through the ceiling, so no one should plan on putting him out to pasture just yet.

            “I think she was a Selwyn,” Aberforth says. “Half that family went one way in the war, one half went the other. She was one of the bad ones. Him—the Brults tried to claim they were pure bloods, but it’s not like anyone’s going to make the list the Sacred 29. The man—I think I heard something years back about how his father wasn’t even a Brult, but some Muggle who did their lawn.”

            “How’d you hear that?”

            “The way I hear things.”

            “Did they ever come in here?”

            “You think those two would ever descend from on high to grace us with their presence? No, I saw them out in the village a few times, when they were students. They looked at everyone like we were ants.”

            “They had some kind of falling out with the Malfoys, didn’t they.”

            Aberforth thinks about it. “Something to do with land.”

            “They weren’t really inner circle for the Death Eaters, if I remember.”

            “No. More…” He thinks about it a moment, then grimaces. “Wannabes.” It’s a little funny to hear that word come from his mouth, and I try not to smile. “Desperate to prove themselves to Voldemort. Desperate to be noticed. They started murdering Muggles just to get his attention. Not because he told them to. They just wanted to do it, and it seemed like a good way to get on his good side. May they rot in Azkaban.”

            “Their son’s shaping up to be a member of the MA.”

            Aberforth’s whole face puckers with disgust. “The MA. Death Eaters without the courage of their convictions.”

            I lift my glass again. “Amen.”

            He turns over the carving in his hands. “I’ve been hearing things about them. The way I hear things.”

            I set down my glass. First I glance over my shoulder to see who’s nearby. Most of the patrons are spread out across the place, none of them within earshot except the lady with the veil. I tilt my head slightly towards her, holding Aberforth’s eyes. He gives his head a single shake.

            Folding my arms on the counter, I lean forward. Aberforth keeps his eyes down, as if he’s discussing nothing of importance. “They’re not just here. There are groups overseas. There’s talk of consolidating under one banner.”

            “What,” I breathe.

            “It’s just chatter here and there so far, but…rumors usually have a few grains of truth.”

            “Is it McDoan behind all of this?”

            “McDoan,” Aberforth says disdainfully. “She’s just the figurehead. The bland face they stick at the front of the movement to make the sheep less frightened. I remember her. Showed up here one year asking for donations for some club she was running. Dead inside, persistent, but I don’t see her having the werewithal to head the next wave of fascists.”

            “There has to be a leader. There’s always a leader.”

            “There doesn’t have to be anything, Longbottom. There’s a movement. In the end, they’ll stick the craziest one up front to push them to do what they really wanted all along. You don’t think people didn’t hate Muggles before Voldemort came along? They would have gotten where they were going eventually. He just sped them up. The MA—for now, they don’t have one of those. At least, not that they’re showing the rest of us.”

            I put my face in my hands. “I just want to be back on vacation. I don’t want to have to bloody think about any of this.”

            “You don’t want to think about it, don’t. You don’t want to fight the next time there’s a fight, don’t. Fate of the world doesn’t rest on _you_ , Longbottom.”

            I smile crookedly at him. “I love how you keep everything in perspective, Aberforth.” He grunts, and I nod at his hands. “What do you have there?”

            He holds up the small carving, no larger than a netsuke, and I snort. Affronted, Aberforth says, “What’s so funny?”

            After fifteen years, I finally ask him, “What is it with you and _goats_?”

            Aberforth draws himself up, as engaged as I’ve ever seen him. “They’re a highly underrated animal! Do you know how much healthier goat meat is for you than sheep? And loyal—a goat will be more loyal to you than some bloody terrier, mark that, Longbottom.”

            I drink and try not to laugh as my friend extols the virtue of goats.

           

The first thing I do when I come home is go straight to Ruby, who’s rustling her leaves violently. “Hush, love,” I say, petting her. I have to lean against the wall. I feel a little unsteady.

            It’s late. I stayed until The Boar’s Head closed, and Aberforth said I could stay in one of the beds, but I got it in my head to walk back to the castle. It was nice, actually. The sky’s all clear so you can see the stars. It’s just cool enough that I didn’t pass out on the way home.

            “Ruby, Ruby, Ruby,” I murmur. I got her on a trip I took with Ginny to Romania. When I got her, she was just a little cutting. Now she’s nearly up to my shoulders.

            Some people have pets, I have plants.

            “Neville.”

            I lift my head. “Yes, Ruby.”

            “Neville, can you hear me?”

            Ruby doesn’t speak. Of course she doesn’t. I look around my room, searching for the source of the voice.

            It’s coming from the chest at the bottom of my bed. “Neville? Are you there?”

            Oh!

            I drop down on my knees, clumsy, and prop myself up on the chest. “Just a moment!” I holler at it.

            Undoing the lid, I reach towards the back. A rectangle has been swaddled in many sheets. Careful as I can, I sit back against the chest, and unwrap the mirror.

            Once I do, I get a big pair of silvery eyes too close to the surface. Resting the mirror against my knees, I say, “Hello, Luna.”

            She takes a few steps back. “Hello Neville.” She waves. Every single one of her fingers has been bandaged.

            “What have you gotten up to there?”

            Luna looks at her injured fingers with curiosity. “Oh, this? The lowing leeches got on me again. I do think about wearing gloves, but I feel like it’s only fair if they want to nibble me a little. I _am_ feeding them to the torpleback, so it’s only right if they fight back a bit.”

            She’s wearing khaki robes with approximately twelve pockets, all of them bulging open. Her hair is piled on top of her head, and her earrings dangle against her shoulders. They look suspiciously like faces, but they’re not. They’re petrified scream pods. I sent her those for her birthday last year.

            “Where are you?”

            “We’re in Zaire. We’re rescuing torplebacks.”

            “I’ve never heard of a torpleback.”

            “Well, that’s because they’re invisible, so plenty of people don’t believe they’re real. But I don’t think that’s very smart. You can’t see the air either, but you know it exists. People say there’s no poaching problem because they don’t think the torpleback is real, and the poor creatures have nearly been hunted to extinction.”

            “I’m not going to worry. If you’re on the case, I’m sure everything will be all right.”

            “That’s very kind of you, Neville. I wanted to see how you were. It’s been too long since I’ve seen you, and I miss you very much.”

            “I miss you as well. I’m doing all right. I’ve actually just come round from The Boar’s Head, so I’m slightly pissed, to be honest.”

            “It must be very stressful, being a teacher. You deserve to relax.”

            “Thank you. How’s Rolf?”

            Her face breaks into a smile. The smile she only ever has when his name is mentioned, when he’s in the same room. “He’s very well. He actually got into quite the fight with some poachers yesterday. He’s having a nap while his bones heal.”

            “Oh dear.”

            “He’s very brave.”

            Of all of us to have ended up with their soulmate, I don’t know that I would have put Luna at the top of the list. However, there are no two people on this planet better suited than Luna Lovegood and Rolf Scamander. They are absolutely matched in their love of animals, and their insanity.

            “Did you have a good holiday?”

            “I did, yeah.”

            “I wish you would have come to visit. The plant life here is fascinating.”

            “Last I spoke to you, you were in Kenya.”

            “The plant life everywhere is fascinating.”

            “Yes. It certainly is. What about you? Any plans to go on holiday?”

            Luna furrows her brow. “I think people go on holidays to escape their lives for a short time. I’m rather happy with my life.”

            “That’s good, Luna. I’m happy for you.”

            Luna holds up a finger. “Just a moment. I want to show you something.” She ducks out of view for a few seconds, then holds up a largely blank piece of paper. In the bottom corner is a name written in crayon. Rosie. “Look at this beautiful picture Rosie sent me of the torpleback.”

            “It’s…blank.”

            Looking at me in consternation, Luna says, “The torpleback is invisible. Isn’t she clever?”

            She’s a little smart ass, is what she is. “It’s very nice, Luna. You saw them?”

            “They came through on their holiday. I hoped they’d stay longer, but Ron didn’t seem very happy about the emesis arachnya.”

            I struggle to keep a straight face. “I can’t imagine why.”

            “You’ve seen them, right?”

            I pause, then say, “I’ll be going there for dinner in about two weeks time.”

            Luna looks at me a long moment, then says, “You should keep in touch, Neville. When things are okay, people don’t say the things they should. And when bad things happen, they realize it’s too late.”

            “Luna, I’m a little too drunk for anything that heavy tonight.”

            “Yes. Well, maybe you’ll remember when you’re sober.”

            I rest my head against the footboard of the bed. “Luna, you’re the smartest person I know. So I want to ask you a question. I want to see if you can figure out the answer.”

            “All right.”

            “If I have a deck of cards, and I ask you to pick one, without showing it to me, and I guess that it’s—say, the seven of spades. I haven’t looked at it, and I haven’t used magic in any way to find out the number. How did I do it?”

            Tilting her head to the side, Luna takes about two seconds to think about it. “Are they _all_ the seven of spades?” she asks.

            I drop my chin down to my chest.

            “Was that wrong?”

            “No. No, that was—spot on.”

            “Is everything all right?”

            “Yeah. I’m only…thinking about someone I met. On holiday.” I smile, and say, “Tell me all about the torplebacks. Tell me about Rolf. Tell me about all your many adventures, Luna Lovegood.”

            She says, “Well, torplebacks also fly. Did you know that?”

            Of course they do.


	13. Chapter 13

I take a breath before knocking on the door.

            It opens, and I’m looking down at a face that’s more wrinkles than skin. A claw-like hand holds the door open, and beady eyes gaze up at me. I give a tight, small smile. I regret this already.

            “You didn’t let me know you’d be coming,” Gran says.

            “I’m on my way to Ron and Hermione’s for dinner. I thought I’d stop by, see how you are.”

            “Give you an excuse not to stay long.”

            I exhale and, hands in my pockets, turn around to head down the stairs.

            “Don’t be melodramatic.” Gran steps back. “Come in.”

            I glance up at the house I was raised in, then I walk inside.

 

I lived in the house outside Poulton-le-Fylde for sixteen years. The first year of my life, I lived with my parents in a cottage on the coast. When I was little, Gran would sometimes take me there on weekends. “This is where it happened, Neville,” she’d say, holding my hand, and looking around the house with something approaching pride. “This is where they lost their minds.”

            I remember very little about the cottage.

            Gran’s house, however, is a place of many memories. Most of my time was spent in my grandfather’s room while he was dying, and I can’t remember a time when my grandfather wasn’t dying.

            Gran insisted on lessons from the time I was old enough to stand. Writing, maths, magical theory. I was rubbish at all of it. Or I was average at it and lost any confidence because of…well, she was never the most encouraging. She couldn’t stand to be away from Granddad for long, and she couldn’t stand to have me out of her sight for long, so her solution was to have us in the same place.

            I had a small desk in the corner where I would work on my lessons, and Gran would go back and forth between me and my grandfather. I’m not sure what was wrong with him, only that he coughed so loudly that I worried it would rattle the walls. Sometimes he would call for my father, and Gran would yell to him (he was fairly deaf by the end), “Frank’s not here, Alvin! He and Alice are at St. Mungo’s! Remember?” Most of the time he wouldn’t remember. If he did, he would cry. Sometimes I cried too, and Gran would be awfully frustrated by that.

            “It’s the truth,” she would say. “Tears don’t do any good about it.”

            The rest of the house was filled with Longbottom heirlooms going back to the beginning of time. We weren’t like some families, keeping house elf heads in bottles, but that’s only because Gran didn’t trust house elves, so we never had any. That’s not to say we didn’t have our fair share of taxidermy—every pet the Longbottoms ever had was stuffed and stuck on every available surface. After a few hundred years, they could be a bit ragged, as you’d imagine. Portraits filled the walls. Faces that looked like mine, people who shared my blood but were quite vocal about how they were sure I wouldn’t measure up.

            The house was one of three built close together a few kilometers from the town limits, and each was inhabited by several elderly family members. The homes were white with brown crosshatch decorations across the outdoors. The lawns were neatly kept because my Great Aunt Mildred was responsible for them. Algie had been barred from the position because he would have filled it with foreign plants and frightened any Muggles who happened to pass by. Mildred’s idea of a garden was short shorn grass and no flower beyond petunias. “They’re sensible flowers,” she said every year.

            “They’re boring,” Algie would answer, hands on his hips.

            “They’re not ostentatious.”

            “Oh, ‘ark at her.” He would grab my by the hand and say, “Let’s go look at some real beauties, Nev.”

            Any spare moment I could, I would be in Algie’s greenhouse behind his house. The plants would nibble at my toes and flick at my cheeks and turn Algie’s lips blue, and he would be absolutely delighted by all of it. So would I. That was my refuge.

            To a lesser extent, so was my room. I had my books and my own thriving plants, and after a day spent listening to my grandfather wheeze his way somehow through to the night, it could be a relief.

            All except the portraits on my wall. There were the two, at the end of my bed, so they would be the first thing I saw in the morning. One was my father, one was my mother. In them, they were no more than twenty years old, but as a child, they seemed timeless to me, or out of time entirely. My father, with his strong chin and wink, my mother with her round face and neatly bobbed, perfectly coiffed hair.

            They would wave, and smile, and they should have made me happy. They’re very lovely pictures. Only I would see them, and as a young child, I would have to reconcile them with the two people living in the hospital, the empty, haggard ones who would not speak. It frightened me. As I got older, they simply made me more and more sad.

            There was no escaping them, though. Gran had spelled them to the wall the day I came to live with her. I think that about sums up our time together.

 

I cast a sympathetic look at the frozen, flaking figure on the shelf nearest to my head. “Sorry, mate,” I say to Trevor. If only he hadn’t popped off when I was visiting one summer. By the time I woke up, Gran had already spelled him and stuck him next to all the other toads the Longbottoms have owned over the centuries. At least he looks the most…intact.

            I put on a smile as Gran enters the sitting room, tea tray floating ahead of her. Every time I see her, I’m shocked by how small she is. In my memories, she’s this huge presence. I can see her looming over my childhood. These days, I doubt the top of her head would come to the top of my ribs, and I could probably lift her with the strength of one hand.

            “We’re having oolong,” Gran says, as though that’s a hardship. As if it’s not the only tea ever kept in the house.

            I don’t bother getting up to help. If I did, she’d just shoo me back down. Of course, because I’m sitting, she gives me a dirty look for not offering to help. It takes me a long time to learn a lesson, but once I have, it sticks, and I’m aware that there is no pleasing my grandmother.

            She pours me out a cup of tea, so pale it looks like water that might have gone through a rusty pipe. I take it into my hands, which seem too large and clumsy for these delicate china cups. Much like I feel too large for these creaky old chairs, in this creaky old house.

            Gran sits on the edge of her favourite chair. One of the things Gran and I have in common is that we do not look like my father. He doesn’t look like my grandfather, either. Apparently he takes after my greatgrandfather. Gran, she’s thin as a bird, with a beaky nose and eyes set far apart. Her hair is always the same—rolled up in a bun at the back, with two big pouffs on top. I’ve never seen her any other way, even in the dead of night.

            She gets right to it. “Have you seen your parents?”

            “Right before school started.”

            “That’s weeks now.”

            “I do have responsibilities at school.”

            “Hmph. I went on Wednesday. Same as always.”

            Wednesdays. Every Wednesday, starting when I was five, we would go to see my parents. Before that, I wasn’t allowed, because you have to be at least ten to enter the Janus Thickey Ward, only Gran somehow finagled me a special exception. Up until that point, I only knew my parents as the happy people in the pictures at the end of my bed. Seeing them in the hospital…

            I begged not to go back. That was not considered an option.

            “The healer told me you’d been with Molly Weasley.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Molly’s been very good about visiting your parents these last few years. I’d remind you, of course, that by your own choice, she is not your family.”

            My face wants to get warm, but this is a song and dance I’m quite used to. “Regardless, she’s always treated me like I am. Molly’s kind like that.” In another home, I’d sip my tea just to have something to do with my hands, my mouth, but if I have to taste that familiar oolong tea, I might scarper.

            “Have you spoken to Ginevra?”

            “Not in a few months. This time of year, she’s probably taking a break before practices start up for the season.”

            “Perhaps you should.”

            “I love Ginny, but she needs to go live her own life.”

            “That’s nonsense. You should get on your hands and knees and beg that girl to come back to you.”

            For the fifth time in a year, because that’s how many times I’ve had to be face to face with my grandmother, I say, “Breaking up was a mutual decision—”

            “It was the wrong decision.”

            “Well, if I’d turned down the Hogwarts job and stayed at the shop, stayed with Ginny as a result, you would have said _that_ was the wrong decision, that I’d lost the opportunity of a lifetime. I chose Hogwarts, and I couldn’t keep Ginny, so apparently that’s the wrong decision instead. I’m quite happy as I am, and I miss Ginny very much, but a person can’t have everything. If you believe they can, I’d be surprised to hear you say it.”

            “You didn’t talk back this much when you were a boy.”

            “Yeah, and that made you upset because that meant I wasn’t like Dad, so—” I raise my shoulders. “How have you been? How have you been keeping busy?”

            “Keeping busy? Like I’m some doddering old woman who needs to fill the hours before death—”

            I put the teacup and saucer on the table beside me, and take out my pocket watch. I have an hour and fifteen minutes before needing to be at the Weasley-Grangers.

            “There’s no reason to be rude, Neville.”

            “I wasn’t attempting to. I just mean to be on time.”

            Gran purses her lips, then says, “I have quite a lot on my plate. I have a very full social calendar.”

            “Excellent. I’m glad to hear that.”

            We don’t say anything a moment. I notice that she’s not had any of her tea either, though she’s holding the cup and saucer close to her chest. I suddenly wonder if I’ve ever seen her actually drink tea or if making it is just something she does because we’re so bloody English.

            “What is this about a Carrow being in Gryffindor?” Gran almost demands.

            “There’s a Carrow in Gryffindor,” I say blandly.

            “How on earth did that happen?”

            “Well, we sort alphabetically—”

            “Speaking of more nonsense.”

            “And since her name fell at a certain point in the alphabet, she was sorted into Gryffindor. That’s what happened.”

            “How could you allow that?”

            “I don’t know, Gran. It didn’t seem like the right thing, to force a child to answer for the crimes of an aunt and uncle who were in Azkaban before she was even born.”

            “The whole family’s bad. Born bad. There’s no changing that. Minerva must be out of her mind. I’ve never agreed with this new sorting arrangement. It makes no sense. None.”

            “Yes, I can’t imagine why we wouldn’t put all the pureblood children with notions of superiority in one place to feed off one another’s hatred. That would be the very worst.”

            “You know what I mean. Our families have always been Gryffindors. Who’s to say where your children will go now? What if they end up in _Slytherin_ , Neville? What then?”

            “Then I shall have to wear more green.”

            “You’re not taking this seriously—”

            “You know who said this same thing to me the other week? Wulfric Brult. The child of two Death Eaters currently rotting away in their cells. Almost word for word, he’s got the same argument as you. Is that where you want to come down on the side of things? You want to be known for agreeing with Death Eaters?”

            Gran screws up her face. “Now don’t be ridiculous—”

            “Lavinia, regardless of her last name, seems like a perfectly nice girl, and before you continue lecturing me about what the Carrows were capable of, I’d remind you that you never faced them, but I did. Repeatedly. Now—would you like to tell me about your full social calendar, or shall I go to Ron and Hermione’s a few minutes early?”

            I give it about three seconds.

            Gran says, “She’s obviously pulled the wool over your eyes—”

 

When Ron opens the door, he pauses and pulls his head back. “Blimey, mate. What happened to you?”

            I nod back over my shoulder, as if it’s only been a stroll down the lane. “Thought I’d say hello to Gran before I came.”

            He lets out a deep sigh, then reaches forward and pulls me in by the shoulder. “Let’s open that wine, shall we?” Closing the door after me, he calls inside, “Uncle Nev’s here!”

            There’s the patter of little feet, then Rose comes flying around the corner. “Uncle Nev!”

            I swoop her up before she can pounce on me, then flip her upside down so that her long, unruly hair brushes the floor. “I am an old man, and you cannot be jumping on me, Rose,” I say mock seriously, swinging her lightly to and fro. “I simply cannot abide it, young lady.”

            “My head feels _funny_ ,” she giggles.

            I turn her right-side up and set her on her feet. She stumbles a bit, but grins up at me, gap toothed. “What happened there?” I ask, bending down with my hands on my thighs. “Did you get in a fight?”

            “No! They fell out and the Tooth Fairy put five knuts under my pillow for them.”

            “Five whole knuts? When I was your age, the Tooth Fairy only gave me some lint and poked me in the eye before flying off. Why do you think you’re so special?” Hugo comes awkwardly toddling around the corner, in nothing but his nappies. Crouching down, I hold out my arms. “Hello, you!”

            As he waddles over to me excitedly, I hear Hermione call, “Hugo? Hugo, where did you—” She comes to the doorway, exhaling in relief when she sees that I have him. “Escape artist. He is impossible.”

            Picking him up, I look into his brown eyes and squeeze his pudgy sides. “Are you an escape artist, young man?”

            “He bounced down the stairs the other day,” Rose says proudly.

            I look at Ron and Hermione in alarm, and they glance at each other, equal parts sheepish and guilty. “He has a tendency to…” Ron considers his words, then finishes, “Wander off.”

            “Suppose we’ll have to just wrap you up in padding,” I tell Hugo, standing back up and holding him against my chest. “Good heavens, Hermione, look at your hair.”

            She reaches up, touching it. It’s been cut nearly down to the scalp, the shortest I’ve ever seen it. “Yes. I just couldn’t deal with it. And he’s been pulling on it more, lately.”

            I nod to Ron. “Well, tell him to stop, then. He’s a big boy.”

            They stare at me a moment, then Hermione puts up her hands and says, “I need to go change. Ron, you deal with this.”

            Ron is snickering. He claps my back and nods me on towards the kitchen. “Let’s see about that wine, you cheeky bastard.”

 

“Why are you so messy?” I ask. I pick up a napkin and wipe the whole of Hugo’s face with it. He flails his arms around, laughing. I bounce him on my knee a bit, then put some more potato on my spoon. “All right, lad, let’s try this again.”

            “Keep him out of his chair at your own risk, Nev.” Ron looks at his son with a dubious expression. “Half the time he gets his food on the ceiling. I don’t know how he does it.”

            “It’s probably magic, Ron.”

            Hermione retorts, “It’s because he’s a baby. No magic involved, just—” He nearly bats the spoon from my hand, and I lift it out of the way at the last moment. Hermione sighs, propping up her head.

            “Good job being a baby, Hugo,” I tell him, and slip some potatoes into his mouth. “You’re doing brilliantly.”

            “I made a book float last night, Uncle Nev,” Rose informs me.

            “Did you, Rosie?”

            “Rather looked to me like you wouldn’t let me put it back on the shelf when it was time to go to sleep,” Ron observes.

            “It _floated_ ,” she insists.

            “How was your birthday, Neville?” Hermione asks. “We’re sorry we weren’t there.”

            “It was all right. Really, all I need is a night out with the usual crew, and I’m happy.”

            “Do you remember what that’s like?” Ron says nostalgically to Hermione. “Out with adults, no small monsters underfoot?”

            She looks exhausted. “Ron, I can’t remember what last Tuesday was like.”

            “Job keeping you busy?” I ask.

            “She’s breaking in a new assistant,” Ron says.

            “I am not _breaking_ anyone in,” Hermione says. “It is not my fault if they’re not up to the standards that I require—Ronald Weasley, get that look off your face.”

            “Sorry, love, that’s just my face.”

            “To answer your question, Neville—the job keeps me very busy. To be perfectly honest, there are days when I long for the relative simplicity of campaigning for house elf rights.” Ron and I keep our mouths shut about that. She’s still mental about the house elves, after all these years. Hermione stabs at her fish. “The position at Magical Enforcement, it’s fulfilling, but it’s a very wide umbrella.”

            “You’ll manage it. You always have.”

            “Only a few more steps to Minister,” Ron says.

            I raise my brows. “Has that come up again?”

            Hermione pulls a face. “Not in so many words. The same people who approached me last year keep giving me meaningful looks in the hallways at the Ministry.”

            “I never thought you’d be so unhappy with success.”

            “I’m not. I’m tired, is all. Between work and the Wizengamot—it’s a lot to juggle.”

            Ron leans towards her. “You also have a family.”

            She reaches over, squeezing his arm. “First and foremost in my mind. Ask Ron about work, Neville.”

            I shoot Ron a glare. “Don’t get me started about Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.”

            He perks up. “Seeing some of the new merchandise at school?”

            “I’ve confiscated so many of the—” Don’t swear in front of the children, Neville. “Things, that I had a drawer full of them. Then the drawer set itself on fire. I ended up binning them before they could bring down the whole greenhouse.”

            “Brilliant.”

            “You and your brother are anarchists.” Hugo puts his hand on my wrist, pushing it towards his mouth. “No, I haven’t forgotten about you. Let’s get some of these nice mushy carrots in your gob.”

            “How’s the new class?” Ron asks.

            “Good eggs. I’ve a few budding herbologists, and the rest are well behaved enough. The odd trouble maker, but I’ve no real complaints about the first years.” I wipe Hugo’s mouth again, then realize Ron and Hermione are giving each other a look. I wait a minute, then sigh. “You’re both worse than my gran. At least she wasn’t shy about asking. Lavinia is fine.”

            “Fine as in _fine_ ,” Ron says, “or fine in comparison to the rest of the family?”

            “Who’s Lavinia?” Rose pipes up.

            “One of my students, Rosie,” I reply. “She’ll be done by the time you come to Hogwarts.”           Hermione says, “But honestly, Neville. How is she?”

            I look at her, surprised. Of all the people in the world, I wouldn’t expect to hear that tone of voice from Hermione about a student. About a child she doesn’t even know. I think she sees my incredulity, because she clears her throat, and looks a bit abashed.

            “She’s a good student,” I say. “Eager to please. Likes herbology.” Ron lets out a snort, and I look at him. “What?”

            He looks at me, rather pityingly. “You really think she’s all right? That whole family—there’s never been a good one, not in their whole history.”

            My hackles raise, and I say, “That’s the kind of lesson you want to teach your daughter?”

            Ron’s face shuts down. “What did you say?”

            “I said, that’s what you want to teach your daughter? Base your opinions on someone’s last name instead of their character?”

            “Don’t be an idiot—”

            “Do _not_ call me that,” I snap. “I’ve told you before, I don’t appreciate it. You’ve done it since we were children, and it wasn’t welcome then, and it’s certainly not now.”

            Ron sits there, mouth open, not quite sure what to say.

            After a moment, Rose says quietly, “Why is everyone mad?”

            We all turn to her, immediately reassuring. “No one’s mad,” Hermione says.

            “Just grown up talk,” I say.

            “It’s fine, Rosie,” Ron says.

            Hugo slaps his hand onto the middle of my plate, splattering food everywhere.

 

“I really wish you’d stop.”

            I continue cleaning up the table with my wand, getting all the food out from the wood grain where it can’t be seen. “I’m being a good guest. If you cook, I clean. That’s how we’ve always done it, isn’t it?”

            Hermione stands a few steps away from me, a hand on the back of her hip. She looks over the table. “I didn’t cook any of it. Ron did. He works all day, he cooks every meal, he makes sure the kids are taken care of—” She pulls out a chair and drops into it. “I can’t even get a diaper on the baby.”

            I pause as she rests her head on her hand. I don’t know what to do when it seems like Hermione is coming apart at the seams. She gets like this every few years. No one outside the family knows. We keep one another’s secrets.

            “Everyone’s doing just fine,” I say, giving her a smile. “Rosie’s brilliant. Hugo’s just a Weasley, through and through. No controlling that. Ron’s happy. No reason to be hard on yourself.”

            She looks up at me with a wan smile. “I’m happy you’re here. I’ve missed…well.”

            “Yeah.” It might be the wrong time to ask, but since we’re on the topic of missing people. Gentle as I can, I say, “Have you spoken to Harry?”

            I’ve hurt her. I can tell that I have, and I want to say that I’m sorry I’ve said his name.

            Hermione swallows, then gives her head a small shake. I make a sound at the back of my throat, continuing to work on the table. “Have you?” she asks.

            I nod. “We write one another. He’s doing well, so you know. The wand shop is good. Everything else, that’s going well too.” I glance over at Hermione. She’s gazing down at the table, half lost in private thoughts. “Whatever it was—whatever it was made you all fall out, it’ll be over soon enough. I know it.”

            She looks up at me. “It’s been a year, Neville.”

            I stop, staggered. “It’s not been a year already.” Hermione nods, and taps her fingers against the table top. I pull out a chair, dropping into it. “I didn’t think it had been that long.”

            “We went last August, remember?”

            “Oh—to be honest, Hermione, that was a bit of a difficult time for me.”

            “Of course it was.” She reaches over and pats my hand. “I can’t believe it’s been a year since you and Ginny split. Things just…for the longest time, they seemed as they should be. Now, it seems…wrong, somehow. I know that’s only life, but I thought I’d be better prepared.”

            “I never thought I’d be prepared for anything.”

            “Perhaps that’s how you’ve handled it with more grace than the rest of us.”

            Scoffing, I play with my hands a bit. The scars on my fingers. I wonder if I have a few more than 37 now. “I’ve never asked about the fight you all had. I haven’t asked Harry either. It’s none of my business. But is there no way one of you could just say you’re sorry?”

            Hermione laughs once, the way I figured she would. Like I don’t know what I’m talking about. I don’t mind when Hermione acts like she’s smarter than me, because she is. It irritates the living hell out of me when Ron tries to act like I’m some naïve child.

            “He wants me to do something that I’m incapable of. And he doesn’t want me in his life unless I can do that one thing. The truth of it is, Neville—I don’t blame him for it. He’s asking something that I should be able to do. I’m a good person, and I should be able to do it. Only I can’t.”

            She runs her hand over her short hair, and I say slowly, “All right.” She’ll tell me if she wants to tell me. I wouldn’t let their opinion dictate my and Ginny’s choices, so I’m certainly not going to butt into theirs.

            Hermione takes a sudden breath and says, “He wants me to forgive Draco. And I can’t.”

            Again, I am taken off guard. “Oh.”

            “Do you know, I think Ron would do it, if I did. Everyone thinks it would be the other way around. Hermione, she’s the logical one. She knows it was a lifetime ago, that it was nearly half our lives ago, that we were children, she should know better. I know it’s not fair, but people look at Ron as the one who should hold a grudge, the one who’d be suspicious. But Nev, he is so desperate to get Harry back, he’d do anything. Only he doesn’t, because I’m his wife, and I feel—” Her face begins to crumble, and she shakes her head at the table. “I feel so terrible that I’m keeping them apart. Except I can’t do it. I can’t just forgive and forget.”

            “Well…Harry can’t expect that…I mean, he has to know…”

            “His opinion is that if he could forgive Draco, there’s nothing stopping the rest of us. And Harry loves him, and he doesn’t want anyone around who hates him. I understand that. If I had a friend who loved me but despised Ron, I wouldn’t want them near either. I just…I can’t.”

            “Do you not…think he’s changed?”

            “Intellectually—I know he must have. But he nearly killed those two Muggles, and it sounds like he had a good reason, but it tastes so sour in my mouth. For Harry to say that Draco has changed, and to know he _Crucio_ ’d a man.”

            “A man who was about to murder a child.”

            Hermione closes her eyes. She rubs the butt of her palm against her forehead. “I can’t make it fit, Neville. I’m supposed to be so clever, but I can’t make it how everyone wants it. I don’t know how to be the better person this time. I don’t know if I ever can.” She sits back, and shrugs helplessly. “Then what? Do I never see Harry again? Do Ron and I never see our best friend—outside of you, of course—because I can’t get over things that happened when we were teenagers?”

            “Maybe you should try talking to him about it. Harry, he’s—stubborn, yeah, but he loves you. You two aren’t only his friends. You’re family.”

            “He wouldn’t understand. I don’t think he could.”

            “What do you mean?”

            Hermione thinks about it a moment. Finally, she says, “Rosie’s been reading everything she can get her hands on. Half the time I have to stop her from reading things, which I never thought I’d have to say about my child. While we were on holiday, I was tucking her in for the night, and we’d read our stories and I was ready to sleep. Except she said to me, ‘Mummy, why does it say _mudblood_ on your arm?’”

            I inhale.

            “And I had to have this talk with her… I had to explain why it was a bad word, and what it meant, and I had to explain why someone would want to hurt her mummy like that, and I had to have that conversation with my 6-year-old. I had to tell her that the world can be a scary place, and I lied and said that I could protect her, but she didn’t believe me. She’s clever.” Hermione turns her arm over, the old pink scar never fading from her brown skin. “I see this thing…it’s a memory of what they did to me, and all of us, and what they would have done, and even now, it affects my children. It’s going to affect all our children. And I’m supposed to just forgive. It’s madness. The world is a mad place, and we ignore that most of the time or else we wouldn’t be able to struggle through. But it’s insane to forgive and forget. I have this terrible feeling that if I do that, I won’t be prepared for next time. And there’s going to be a next time. There will always be a next time.”

            “Yeah,” I say quietly.

            “Harry wants to act as if it’s all in the past. But it’s now, too. It’s all around us. All the time, and I can’t—”

            She bends her head forward, closing her eyes.

            “Hermione?”

            She reaches up with a shaking hand, covering her eyes.

            I look around, at a loss, as she starts to cry. Putting a hand to her back, I say, “I’m going to get Ron, all right? Just a second.”

            I get up and go to find Ron. This is not a problem either of us can fix, but he’s better equipped to deal with it than I am.

 

Two fingers land on my shoulder. “Thanks for getting the kids to bed.”

            Ron passes me a bottle, then sits down beside me. “Happy to help.” I’m slouched low in my chair. They have a few on the roof of their Oxford flat. Good view of the colleges. I don’t dare ask what they paid for it.

            Ron stretches out his long legs and looks up at the stars. He’s grown out a beard, and his hair is nearly down to his shoulders. I can’t help but wonder if he’ll lose his hair like his father has.

            “I know you’re too discreet to ask,” Ron says, “but she’s seeing the mind healer again. She’s just had some rough days, is all.”

            “Good. She’s always been the strongest one of us.”

            “Yeah, but that’s never been fair to her either. Just because she’s strong doesn’t mean she doesn’t need help.”

            I smile a bit at that. Ron and Hermione will outlast us all.

            “She was talking to you about Harry, yeah?”

            “And Draco. I didn’t realize it had already been a year.”

            “Yeah. Blimey. I don’t like to think about it. Something will break soon enough. Hey—I’m sorry about what I said about the Carrow girl. My mouth just moves ahead of my brain most of the time. And you’re right—if I ever heard those words coming out of my daughter’s mouth, I’d die of shame.”

            “I was out of line. I don’t have children. It’s not my place to tell you how to raise yours.”

            “You have the whole of Gryffindor. Merlin’s beard. Of all the things I never thought I’d see—” I raise a brow, and Ron pauses before saying, “Neville, you weren’t the most impressive child. Give me that.”

            “McGonagall said something very similar. I think I was just a child. That’s all.”

            “It was one thing when it was Professor Longbottom. Now it’s Head of Gryffindor. We’re all bloody proud of you, mate.”

            “Cheers,” I say shyly.

            We sit for a few minutes in the night. It’s warmer down here. Autumn’s come to  Hogwarts with a vengeance. Leaves are going a lovely shade of orange, and my plants that usually bloom in October are threatening to do so early.

            “Are you still doing your experiments?” Ron asks.

            “Oh, I do some cross breeding, but I’m mostly happy to just grow them as they ought to be.”

            “I mean…your other experiments.”

            “Your father asked me about that a few weeks back.”

            “I don’t mean to stick my beak in where it doesn’t belong, Nev—”

            “No, it’s fine. I know I was pretty vocal about it for a few years there. It just didn’t work out, Ron. It was a young man’s dream. There’s still plenty of dreams to be had.”

            “I hear that.”

            I point at him with my bottle. “I swear by the stars, Ron, that if I have one more student come into my class with Gaseous Gum, I am going to deposit them on your doorstep, and you can deal with the smell.”

            “One of our top sellers this year, and for a man who’s pleased as punch using hippogriff shit for fertilizer, I don’t know if you’re in a position to come after me about smells.”

            “That’s _useful_. What’s useful about Gaseous Gum?”

            Ron shrugs. “Farts are hilarious. Are you really that disconnected from your childhood, Neville?”

            “You’re a disgrace,” I mutter.

            “And you’re Head of Gryffindor,” Ron crows. “What’s next, Headmaster?”

            I smile, like that’s the silliest idea he’s ever had, and have another sip of beer.

 

I get in late, late enough that I wish I had just stayed on Ron and Hermione’s sofa and taken an early Floo back to Scotland. The truth of it, though, is that I’d stay up late as possible for the chance to sleep in my own bed. My own little corner of the world, with its window looking over the Black Lake, towards the path to Hogsmeade.

            Graceful as ever, I toss off my clothes haphazardly, and go to take care of my teeth. Before I do, though, I uncap the little green bottle in the cabinet. Taking a dropper, I carefully put two drops on my tongue. After three years, I’m oddly accustomed to the taste.

            I get ready for bed, then flop onto it, rolling around until I’ve managed to coccoon myself with blankets. Sticking my hand up under the pillow, I look up through the window at the night sky. My eyes find all the constellations Algie taught me as a boy. The Niffler, the Lady in the Lake, the One Legged Goblin. I trace them with my eyes as I think.

            I was the first of our group to encounter Draco Malfoy as an adult. Long before Harry ran off to be with him. If I hadn’t told Harry where I saw him, maybe they wouldn’t be together now. Truth be told, I’m not sure how anyone could be surprised about the two of them. I wasn’t the most observant of children, and I could tell they were obsessed with each other nearly from the moment they met. Of course, back then they seemed most likely to murder one another, but as someone who spends their days corralling teenagers, I’m well aware that hatred can often be cover for something else.

            I forgave Draco. I haven’t forgotten what he did. And I haven’t rescinded that forgiveness either. Much as Goyle shook me, I honestly believe Draco has changed. I sat in that museum with him and listened to him speak, and I know that someone who loves their children that much can’t really be all bad.

            As for that Muggle he cursed, well—people do terrible things when their children are threatened. That’s just another fact of life.

            I didn’t really understand the way he spoke about his kids, the boys he mentored, until I was a teacher. Now I do. I recognize in myself exactly what he was talking about. The pride, the frustration, the heartbreak, the triumph.

            That, and I trust Harry. He would kill for Hermione and Ron, that I have no doubt. But if he believes in Draco strongly enough that he’s willing to let them go, that says something. It says a hell of a lot.

            I’m really a hypocrite. Here I am telling everyone that Lavinia is fine, that we should be finding a way to get along with the past, and in my mind I am absolutely dragging my feet. How am I supposed to tell Hermione to forgive Draco when I can’t forgive Lavinia for a thing that happened before she even existed?

            Not that Hermione has to forgive Draco. Forgiveness is a personal choice, and if that’s not something she can do, then that’s just the way it is. Harry might be upset about it, but strangely enough, I think that Draco probably understands. If the man I remember from all those years ago is the same man.

            We’re all of us changing, all of the time.

            It’s too late for deep thoughts. I pull the blankets up over my shoulder and close my eyes. May I dream of Algie’s greenhouse, and happy things.


	14. Chapter 14

Here’s the thing about having a Chosen One. If you’re a teacher, a few years after that Chosen One has defeated the great evil, you’re going to suddenly have a whole mess of children with the same name.

            Which is how in my third year Gryffindor class, I have the following situation. Harry Y., who’s a great galloping bully, tripped Harry J., who fell into Harry B. Harry B. tried to break his fall and did so with his arm on top of his xiddig. This is why I’ll have Harry Y. in detention with two others this Saturday (not Wulfric yet, but I have him again tomorrow), Harry J. inconspicuously rubbing at what is sure to be a large bruise on his bottom, and Harry B. up with me, getting his arm and wrist bandaged.

            I do this quite a lot. Being a herbology professor also means being a dab hand at first aid.

            “Will I have a scar?” Harry B. asks, seeming a little too eager about it.

            “I don’t know that you’ll have a scar, mate. Go see Madam Pomfrey after this and she’ll throw a little of this and that on there, and you’ll be right as rain.” He goes a bit glum, and I bite into my lower lip. I shouldn’t be amused. Plenty of boys view scars as an achievement. The preponderance of mine is definitely what’s given me a large portion of their respect.

             “Professor?”

            I’m good at smiling. It comes to me easily. I’ve laugh lines around my mouth from all the smiling I’ve done over the years. So I don’t have to fake it all that much when I smile this time. “Yes Lavinia?”

            The rest of the class has either rolled their eyes or cast one another dirty looks. Lavinia seems oblivious, her hand in the air. She asks a _lot_ of questions. Enough that it irritates her peers. To be honest, she’s a bit Hermione Granger about it.

            Lowering her hand, Lavinia says, “I’ve noticed that the buds of our star aren’t really brown. They’re more of a rust colour. What does that mean?”

            Pondering, I do a few more wraps around Harry B.’s wound before responding. “You’re making sure that the fertilizer is 2:1 worms and blue clay?”

            “Yes Professor.”

            Courtney is glaring at her project partner. I give her a second, then ask, “Something you’d like to add, Courtney?”

            She’s just been waiting for the prompt. “ _She_ is putting something in the soil and it’s making our plant weird!”

            The classroom erupts with murmurs. Lavinia is turning red, looking mortified and betrayed. I wait for everyone to settle down. “Define ‘weird,’ Courtney.”

            “Everyone else’s is _brown_. Everyone else’s sort of rustles about. Ours bangs on the cupboard door when I have to have it overnight!”

            “It bangs about?” I’m intrigued. I finish off Harry B.’s bandage, and pat him on his back to send him back towards his station. “Really?”

            “It’s scary and weird!”

            “Has it grown legs and arms and threatens you in the night?”

            Courtney’s face falls. “It can do that?”

            “ _No_ , Courtney, it cannot, so I wouldn’t be frightened of anything. Lavinia, what are you putting in your soil?”

            Hesitating, she scuffs her foot a few times before answering. “Oil of rosedog.”

            Sitting back, I cross my arms. Oil of rosedog. You only get that from Sumatra. Will take the redness out of your skin, but you have to be very careful with the dosage or you’ll go ashy as all hell for a few weeks. The only use I know for it is cosmetic.

            “Oil…of rosedog,” I murmur. Scratching behind my ear, I think about it, and I just can’t figure out where she’s coming at it from. The xiddig’s most famous quality is its colour. Why would she choose something that leeches colour? “Where did you come up with that?”

            Lavinia’s answer doesn’t surprise me. She’s said it several times before. “My professor—”

            “At Ilvormorny,” at least two people mutter.

            “Quiet,” I say, and the snickering immediately stops. “All right. What did Professor Thirdsnap say about oil of rosedog?”

            “That it had growth properties for desert plants.”

            “Hmm. You know, I’ve never heard that.” I tap my foot against the ground. I’m wracking my brain, trying to come up with any way that the properties of rosedog could help in the growth of a Djibouti star. “I have to admit, I’m a little perplexed. You’re sure it’s rosedog?”

            “Yes sir. It says right on the label.”

            “And what colour is it?”

            “Sort of a—swampy, greeny colour, I guess?”

            Fuck me blind.

            “It’s green.”

            Lavinia looks nervous. “Yes?”

            I stare at her for a moment.

            Then I calmly stand up.

            Putting my hands together, I say as steadily as I’m able, “Everyone, I want you to get your masks from underneath your stations.” They all stare at me, frozen, so I raise my voice. “Immediately.” That unsticks them. They all go grabbing for their masks, slipping them over their heads. No one panics, exactly, because I’m being calm, but it’s going to be a short thing if I don’t get them out of here. I look at who’s closest to the door. “Harry Yuen! Detention is cancelled if you run and get Madam Pomfrey. Go, thank you.”

            He takes off, and everyone is getting very anxious. Lavinia is still struggling with the straps of her mask. She hasn’t had two previous years of drills to help her out.

            “Drucilla! Use those running skills of yours and go get Hagrid, will you? Thank you.” I clap my hands twice as she runs out the door. “Courtney, Lavinia, put on your gloves. Now, we are going to leave the greenhouse single file, and we are going to do so in an orderly fashion.” I wave them on. “Single file. No pushing.”

            As soon as their backs are to me, I grab my gloves and mask and wand. Not much time for anything else. I follow up at the back of the queues, reminding them ‘single file’ and ‘no pushing, just like we drilled, everyone.’

            As I pass Lavinia and Courtney’s xiddig, I give it a good look. I feel like it’s looking back. It’s certainly pulsing a great deal.

            I look forward, saying cheerfully, “Out onto the grass, future herbologists!”

            Once we’re all outside, they don’t seem quite sure where to stop. Some are more inclined to run off, others just want to stay near the group. I hold my arms out wide, herding them like ducklings.

            “Let’s all gather under that beautiful _Betula alba_ , class. Everyone together. Harry B., not too far, thank you, I want to do a head count. Are we all here? Yes. Just a moment before I count you off.”

            I go over to Courtney and Lavinia. Courtney’s friends are standing off to the side of her, wanting to offer support, but not wanting to be within touching distance, either. Courtney’s wide eyed and shaking, she’s so frightened and furious. Lavinia’s mask straps are all twisted at the sides, preventing a seal from forming around her mouth.

            I slip the straps of my mask over my wrist and go about fixing her up. “Let’s get this right—”

            “What did I do?” Lavinia says, voice bordering on hysterical.

            “You’ve bloody poisoned all of us, what does it look like?!” Courtney shrieks.

            “Oi!” I bark. “None of that language, and none of that attitude, young lady. Now—only double checking, but at any time did you handle the xiddig with your bare hands?”

            “Never!” Courtney shouts. “Not with that freak mucking about with it—”

            “Detention!” I respond, and Courtney almost goes faint. I don’t imagine she’s ever had detention before. “Saturday, five o’clock. Bring your gloves.” I turn back to Lavinia. “Lavinia—did you touch it with your bare hands?”

            Her legs seem a little wobbly. “Once?” she squeaks.

            “Before or after you put the serum in the soil?”

            “Why? What’s going to happen to me?”

            We hear the first glass breaking, and I turn around.

            There’s the sounds of things hitting the walls, one after another. Crashes, thumps. They get increasingly louder as the objects being vaulted are progressively larger. Half the class screams and they all move back as a work station goes flying through one of the glass walls.

            I just slip on my mask, deftly securing the straps. I’m a bit giddy. Never going to see a thing like this again. I take out my wand, getting ready.

            There’s a strange sound. A sort of _whoosh_ , going around and around.

            Ready as I’ll ever be. Lifting my wand, I cast a good hearty, “ _Protego_!” throwing up a shield in front of my whole class, and considerably high above our heads as well.

             The spinning, massive xiddig finally starts smashing through the walls as it gets going. The spines are still mostly laid flat, but it doesn’t matter at that size and speed. Glass shoots through the air in all directions. Thankfully, it falls impotently off the shield charm, though that doesn’t stop some of the students from crying out. There are others, however, who are clearly enjoying this as much as I am.

            The growing plant goes through the roof. I hear another larger crash, presumably the wall between rooms exploding outwards. For a few seconds, the whole greenhouse strains at the seams. I can see the old girl trying to hold on. She’s seen a lot of mishaps over the years.

            The xiddig blooms, and the greenhouse explodes.

            _Blimey_. It’s as beautiful as I could have ever imagined.

            The seven-meter-high xiddig is beyond glorious. Its petals and leaves are each a different colour. All primaries, all vibrant. I would love to get the scent of it, but I’m quite sure what’s about to happen next, and that wouldn’t be entirely safe.

            From behind me, one of the girls says, “Neat!”

            “Class, this will give us the rare opportunity to observe the xiddig on a macro level. First, however, everyone make sure your masks are secure—”

            As if on cue, the xiddig puffs out a massive cloud of greenish pollen. I flick my wand, pushing the shield up a few more meters. Safety is security, after all.

            Through the green haze, I study the gigantic xiddig and remark, “Well, Lavinia, I think you’ll have full marks on ‘getting your xiddig above ten centimeters.’” I look back.

            Lavinia’s fainted dead away.

 

I’m using a measuring charm on one of the leaves, marking the results in a levitating book, when I hear a, “Merlin’s beard, Neville!”

            I look up and see Hagrid come limping along. Madam Pomfrey’s come and gone with Lavinia and a few hypochondriacs. Hagrid is stumping along on his wooden leg, using a cane that comes up to the mid of my chest. Mippy is at his side, having to take approximately ten steps for one of her master’s strides.

            Raising a hand in greeting, I say, “Quite the sight, isn’t it?” I go to greet him. I’ve already enlargened a mask for him. I’ve cleared the air of as much pollen as I’m able, and his half-giant physiology would probably just shrug off whatever is left. But the man is in his eighties, and I’d rather he reach his centennial. “Better put this on.”

            He thrusts his cane out at me. I take it, flinching at the weight. Hagrid fumbles to get the straps over his long, wild grey hair. I’d like to help him, but he’s touchy about people trying to help him with things. If it was me and someone offered to help me do up my shoes, I’d probably die from humiliation and choke on my tongue from all the stuttering that would result.

            When it’s all in place, Hagrid takes back his cane, planting it so hard in the ground that I’m sure it will leave a divot. Then even he has to tilt his head back to look at the xiddig.

            “She’s a beaut, ain’t she?” Hagrid says.

            See, this is why I asked for him. I needed someone out here just as mad as I am. Also, he _is_ Keeper of the Grounds. Only right that he should see this.

            “Marvelous,” I agree, crossing my arms to study the enormous plant.

            “Look at all the colours on ‘er. Never seen anything like it on Hogwarts grounds.” Mippy is hopping around between the two of us. Her barks could really only be categorized as squeaks. “Yes, Mippy, look at the pretty flower.”

            I reach down and pick up Mippy. She weighs all of ten pounds and people make a lot of jokes about Hagrid accidentally sitting on her one day. But he was so heart broken after Fang passed on, and I knew he needed another dog, but not one that would remind him of the last one.

            Hence Mippy. The little white ball of fluff that one of Ginny’s teammates breeds for fun.

            “I _never_ thought it could do something like this,” I say, thrilled. I love discovering new things. And with herbology, there are always things to discover.

            “Frederika’s daughter said it had something ter do with that Carrow girl.”

            Nodding, I say, “Honest mistake. Well, her herbology teacher back at Ilvormorny is a menace. Taught her some utter nonsense. But Lavinia thought she was using oil of rosedog to fertilize the xiddig. What she actually had was concentrated rosedag. If it had been rosedog, she probably would have just killed the plant. But rose _dag_ —that’s been extinct fifty years, and what she did have would have been percolating this whole time, increasing in potency. A few drops of rosedag would certainly add some size to whatever you were growing. However—Lavinia was using the proper proportions for rose _dog_. That’s considerably more than rose _dag_.” Scratching Mippy behind the ears as she squirms happily in the crook of my arm, I sigh with admiration at the towering xiddig. “You’ll not see this again, Hagrid. I didn’t even think there was that much rosedag left in the world.”

            “’ow’d she get ‘er hands on that?”

            “I have to assume Professor Thirdsnap back at Ilvormorny. She gave Lavinia a bunch of her old things when she left for here.”

            “Was she trying ter ‘urt everyone, do you think?”

            I bark louder than Mippy ever could. “Hagrid—I just said it was an honest mistake. She hardly would have conspired to kill us all by standing in the same room with us as a plant that just _might_ go off at any time.”

            Darkly, Hagrid says, “That whole family was born—”

            “I’ll not hear it. Like I said to Ron and Hermione awhile back, I’ve been hearing a lot about the Carrows at Hogwarts from people who weren’t here when they were. I was here. And if I can get past Lavinia being a student, the rest of you should just catch up.”

            Hagrid seems surprised, and I’m a bit surprised by myself. I can’t recall another time I spoke back to Hagrid. He shakes his head. “You believe what you like, Neville. I’ve known plenty o’ Carrows in my day, not just the two what tortured students. Not a good one in the batch.”

            I sigh, then hold Mippy up to look at Hagrid. “You hear that, Mippy? Daddy thinks we should judge people based on their name and not their character.”

            Mippy actually looks sad. Hagrid’s face falls. “Don’t look at me like that, Mippy.”

            Trying not to laugh, I kiss Mippy on the head. “Good girl. Shame is a powerful motivator.”

            Coming through the air, we hear a hollered, “Holy Nimue!” We turn around. Aida is on her broomstick, zooming towards us. I lift my hand and wave. She lands on the ground a few steps away from us in a big puff of purple robes, more graceful at twice my size than I’ll ever be on a broom. She gawps at the xiddig for a moment. “Lavinia did this?”

            “She did.”

            “Oh, Neville, you have to let me harvest some of this. I don’t know what I’ll make with it yet, but it’s going to be amazing.”

            “I’d be careful about it. The whole thing is laced with rosedag.”

            “Rosedag!” Aida yelps. “Fucking hell, no wonder it took out the greenhouse. You’ll let me come out here with my NEWT students, won’t you, though? My seventh years will absolute _die_ when they see this.”

            “Be my guest. Masks and gloves, though.”

            “You’re not wearing a mask.”

            “Neither are you.”

            Hagrid says, “Why am I wearing a mask, then?”

            Aida pats his arm. “Because you’re old, Hagrid.”

            “Oh, get off, the both of you. What’s McGonagall said about this?”

            Right. _Right_.

            “You know,” I say sheepishly, “I hadn’t exactly thought of her until you said her name.”

            “You’re going to get an earful,” Aida says with glee. “Have you ever had a student blow up your classroom before? Every time one of my kids blows up the room, it’s me and that chilly brogue wanting to know why I don’t have better control of my chicks.”

            “What’s your answer?”

            “That it’s _Potions_. Making things explode is all part of the learning process. No one’s lost an eye.”

            “Yet. I daresay I’ve already seen quite a few students walking around without eyebrows this year.”

            “Oh, that’s only the new style.”

            “’ow long will she live, Neville?” Hagrid asks. He lifts Mippy from my arms with one hand, the dog disappearing momentarily inside. He sticks her in his coat pocket, the dog poking its snout out.

            “A week. Nine days, if we’re lucky.”

            “The green’ouse will start putting itself back together before then.”

            “Not if we hold it back a little.”

            Hagrid goes a bit squeamish. “You don’t want ter do that, Neville. Never a good idea to tell Hogwarts what to do. It’s got a mind of it’s own, and it don’t take ter meddling.”

            I think of the Hat, and I smile. “I know this place like my own heart, Hagrid. We’ll make do.”

            We stand around, admiring the scenery.

            At least until Aida yelps, “Bloody hell!” Both Hagrid and I jump, and Mippy dives deep into the pocket. “Why didn’t I bring my camera?”

            She grabs her broom and pushes off, in seconds a mass of purple robes rippling off into the distance.

            Hagrid gazes after her admiringly. “You know—if I was forty years younger—”

            “No!” I cry out. I put my hands over my ears, walking towards the xiddig. “No no no!”

            Hagrid booms after me, “I’m old, not dead!”


	15. Chapter 15

With the greenhouse destroyed, classes are relocated to a room on the first floor near the gardens. We can see the xiddig out the window, utterly fucking resplendent.

            Things with McGonagall went surprisingly well. “Frankly, Longbottom,” she said without looking up from her tea, “I thought this would have happened at least six times over by now.” Getting past the Headmistress was easy; now comes the real test.

            “Maybe something suitable can be built now,” Wulfric says, though no one asked him. “Replace that heap we were in before.”

            Before I can say anything, Lucien Hookbridge says, “Mate, did you ever have an opinion anyone cared about?”

            Wulfric sneers, and I can see how things could quickly get out of hand. Clapping twice, I smile at my sixth years. “All right, students. I know how much you love theory—” I see a lot of slumped shoulders, as if the classroom itself let out a sigh. “So that’s what we’ll be focusing on for the next few classes. Depending on those cloud ferns, we might go out and have some time in the garden next class. For today, however, I need you all to open your textbooks to page 54.”

            I pick up a stick of chalk and turn to the board. Aida has installed some strange, white, plastic looking boards in her room this year, writing on them with something called ‘markers.’ I tried it and I hated it. I love chalk. I love the way it comes off on my fingers, and then washes away.

            Writing out the salient points, I say, “The most common properties of flora native to volcanic areas. Obviously, growth is at the top of the list. Rosedag, the substance that caused our friend out there to reach such incredible size, was primarily found in Lampung. That’s where Krakatoa is located.”

            “Professor?”

            Pointing across the room, I reply, “Yes, Gemma.”

            The reedy girl with huge glasses speaks with barely veiled enthusiasm. “Will we be able to visit the xiddig?”

            I knew they would ask. Normally, I would have no issue taking my sixth years out to see the plant. These are future herbologists and potion makers. They’re chomping at the bit to see this. They know this is a once in a lifetime opportunity.

            Except all I can think of is Draco Malfoy pretending the hippogriff nearly killed him and that poor thing being sentenced to death.

            As if reading my mind, Lucien says, “We’ll leave Wulfric behind, sir.”

            There’s laughter from the rest of the class, and Wulfric flushes angrily. He starts to turn in his seat, and I say firmly, “Lucien, anything else like that comes out of your mouth for the rest of class and you’ll be joining me Saturday for early detention instead of Quidditch practice. I imagine Gulbahar would be thrilled.”

            He gives a nod of the head. “Yes sir.”

             I turn to continue writing on the board, only there’s a knock at the door. That’s never a good sign. Everyone knows it, and there’s murmurs. “Page 54, everyone. I’ll be randomly calling on you for answers, and we all know how awkward the ‘I don’t know’ silence is.”

            Brushing off my hands, I go to the door. Opening it, I don’t immediately find anyone there, so I lean into the hallway.

            McGonagall stands there with her hands clasped. “Longbottom.”

            I push the door closed, stepping closer to her. “Yes, Headmistress.”

            Her mouth is more pursed than usual. “There’s been an incident.”

 

Ten minutes later, I’m the one tapping on a classroom door. I straighten my robes, then go ahead and open the door myself. Herman gives me a quizzical look, saying, “Professor?”

            I glance over the room, saying, “Pardon me, Professor. Olive?”

            She’s sitting by the window with Evangeline over their runes. The girl gives me a startled look, and Evangeline immediately leans closer to her, protectively.

            I gesture for her. “Can you gather your things and come with me, Olive?” It takes a moment for her to do anything, but Evangeline begins packing her own supplies as well. “Not you, Evangeline.” I hold out an arm. “Come along, Olive.”

            She puts her head down, striding down the aisle and walking past me. Evangeline is still half risen in her seat, looking irritated by me.

            Herman walks over, and I whisper briefly in his ear. His face clouds with fury, and I clap a hand to his shoulder before leaving the room.

            Olive is standing in the hallway with her satchel over her shoulder. She’s tall and thin, with hair shorn close as a boy’s. She has never given me any trouble, nor anyone else that I know of. I doubt anyone has ever called her out of class before.

            I keep my voice low, and kind, and steady. “I’m going to portkey you down to Newquay. Something has happened.”

            As soon as I say the name of her hometown, she pales. “My parents.”

            I nod. “Your grandparents will meet you there. They’ll take you to them.”

            “Did someone hurt them?”

            “Yes. They’re alive, they’re in hospital.”

            “Who did it?”

            “No one knows yet.”

            Inhaling, Olive said, “It’s because they’re Muggles, isn’t it. Someone did this—someone did this because they’re Muggles.”

            “I don’t know that. And you don’t know that.”

            “Was it witches and wizards that did it?”

            “It looks like, yes.”

            “Then it’s because my parents are _Muggles_ ,” Olive says vehemently. Her eyes are reddening, but I don’t think she’ll cry. I think she’s too upset for tears. “They counter protested at the Ministry. My mum’s the Muggle columnist for _The Quibbler_ , people know who she is—they did this! The MA did this.”

            Bending down to look in her eyes, I say, “Now is not the time to be angry. Later will be plenty time to be angry and to choose whichever battles you like. Right now, though, you need to get to Newquay to be with your family.”

            Olive nods, looking past me. I put a hand to her back and prompt her forward, cursing the fucking MA to the ends of the earth.

 

“Hello you.”

            I look up from the portkey circle. Aida walks down the lane to me. The left side of her hair is singed. “Experiment gone wrong?”

            “What’s that? Oh no. Gone right, I think you mean.” She plants her feet, squinting up at me. “Olive get away all right?”

            “Yeah. More or less.”

            “What happened?”

            “Neighbours heard screaming, called the Muggle police. When they went in, they found the Gruyeres spelled to the ceiling with agony vine.”

            Aida mutters, “Fucking cowards. They’re in St. Mungo’s, I’m assuming.”

            “They are. Mrs. Gruyere might not make it.”

            “Get away with you.”

            “I didn’t have the heart to tell Olive. Figured her grandparents would do a better job. Whoever the MA pricks were went in there, they took their time with her. She’s a writer, does that column for _The Quibbler_ about Muggle perspectives on the wizarding world.”

            “ _Ask Amanda_? Blimey. I read her all the time. I didn’t realize she was Olive’s mother.”

            “I don’t really know much about Olive beyond her and Evangeline being attached at the hip.”

            “They’re an item, aren’t they? Have to be.”

            “I figure, yeah. I half expect Evangeline to be back in my office waiting at the end of the day.”

            “That’s not too bad. It’s good to have friends in times like these.” Aida pushes her burned hair back and says, “I had a whole flock of them when I was their age. New boyfriend every week as well.”

            “You must have been the terror of Hufflepuff, Aida.”

            “I was. Sprout never forgave me. The whole time we taught here together, she’d ask me once a month, ‘Lost your knickers in the Black Lake again, Mezzaneer?’” I snort hard enough to scrape my sinuses, and Aida shrugs. “You do one silly thing as a teenager and no one will ever let you forget it.” She reaches over, rubbing a hand up and down my arm. “Come back inside, Nev.”

            “I do that, I’ll have to go back to the students.”

            “Yeah, the little blighters.”

            “Do you want kids?” I ask, surprising myself with the question.

            “I wouldn’t mind a few. But I’ve no interest in going the old fashioned route. Regardless of my teenage reputation, I’ve never really seen the appeal of sex. Genitals are patently ridiculous, and I’ve no need for romance.”

            “Don’t tell Hagrid that, you’ll break his heart.”

            “Bless him. I do enjoy the mangled flowers he gives me every Valentine’s Day. I wouldn’t mind adopting, Nev. If I could do it without another person, I’d scoop up some little chubby cheeked orphan. I’d raise them at Hogwarts.”

            “You think McGonagall would agree to that?”

            “Minerva’s got a softer heart than you realize. I think she would raise the bare minimum of fuss, then practically become the child’s aunt. What about you, Nev? You see a future with miniature Longbottoms running about?”

            “I don’t know that I do. I’d like it if there were. I’d _love_ it if there were. But I don’t know how that would work.”

            “What’s your future look like, then? What would make you happy?”

            When Aida asks what would make me happy, all I can think of is Ginny, for one sad, nostalgic moment. But I put that aside, and say, “Tell you what, Professor. Another five years, if neither of us has children, we adopt one together. Co-parent one of those chubby cheeked orphans and let them roam the halls of Hogwarts.”

            “Blimey, the kids would use her as a mascot. I love it.” Aida holds her hand out to me. “I’ll hold you to it, Neville.”

            I shake her hand with a smile. “I’m not kidding.”

            She pauses, then grins crookedly. “All right then. Neither am I.” Letting me go, Aida whacks me on the back as she turns to walk away. “Come inside. Herman’s covering your third years. They won’t learn a bloody thing besides how he so valiantly lost his ear.”

            “That vicious pomerian,” I sigh, catching up to her.

            “The _dragon_ , Neville. The _dragon_.”

            We glance at one another and smirk.

 

I’m relieved it’s the last class of the day. I could just leave Herman with the kids and go poke about the xiddig for awhile. I won’t, of course. The idea of leaving my students in anyone’s hands other than mine when it comes to Herbology makes me want to break out in hives. I don’t know if I’d even be comfortable with Aida doing it.

            Walking these halls is like being in a liminal space. Everyone is in their classrooms, and I can hear murmurs from whole worlds taking place behind the doors. I’m part of it, and not.

            Bloody hell, Neville. What fifth year poetry book did you get that from?

            Just tired is all. And angry. That might be the worst, when I’m both. Hard to feel hopeful when you have to send a child across the island because someone might have killed her mother.

            There will be more. I remember last time. Children called from their classes. On the other side of the wall, the news waiting for them that they were now short a mother, a brother, a friend. Some would stay at Hogwarts, and some we never saw again.

            Then the day came when the students themselves started dying. I will not let that happen here. This place is my home, and these children are my responsibility.

            I put up a damned good fight as a teenager. The world has another thing coming if it thinks to challenge me as a grown man.

            I hear someone speaking. A man, his voice low. I can’t tell what he’s saying, but he sounds cross. I pause, blowing out a breath. I don’t want to deal with whatever machinations are happening. Hiding behind the xiddig is sounding more appealing by the second.

            No, you idiot. You were just thinking about your responsibilities, and you’re going to abandon your class just because you’re having a difficult day? Keep going.

            Rolling my eyes, I forge onwards.

            The closer I get to turning the corner, the easier it is to hear how irate the man sounds. He’s practically growling. I really don’t care what it’s concerning. All I want is to get to my class and get through the last of my day.

            Only I suddenly hear a child’s whimpering between the man’s mutters.

            I pick up my pace, rounding the corner, and—I’ll kill him. I will absolutely kill him.

            Herman has Lavinia outside the door of the classroom. He looms over her, his index finger stuck in her face. Her back is pressed to the wall, and she’s hyperventilating, weeping as he hisses, “I see what you are, exactly what you are. Another little Death Eater, like everyone else in your diseased family. Don’t pretend with _me_. I have my eye on you—”

            “Herman!” I bark.

            He immediately straightens. He is my height and broad, and if he wanted to, he could throw Lavinia down the hallway one handed. Herman puts on a smile. “Professor Longbottom! I needed a word with Miss Carrow. I don’t know how they do things at Ilvormorny, but this one needs some clarification on classroom etiquette.”

            Lavinia is staring at me, her relief at my arrival so desperate that it’s difficult to take. I nod towards the door. “Back to your desk, Lavinia.”

            She nods eagerly, sliding along the wall to get away from Herman. He turns to watch her slip back inside, a placid expression on his face. Once the door closes, Herman starts to say, “She’s a chip off the old—”

            I cannot remember the last time I hit anyone this hard. My fist lands in the middle of his face. Herman’s head snaps back. Almost immediately, his nose begins to spout blood. He staggers, falling back against the wall. It’s the only thing keeping him from dropping on his rear end.

            He hasn’t the time to recover before I’ve grabbed him by the collar of his robes. Herman yelps, trying to hit my arm. But I have my wand in my other hand, and I shove it right up his nostril.

            _That_ shuts him up.

            I am seething. I do not know what to do with my rage.

            Barely resisting the urge to jam my wand into his brain, I tell Herman, “If you ever speak to one of my kids like that again, they won’t find the pieces, you bastard. If you touch one of my kids, if I ever see you threaten a student like you did just now, it will be the last thing you ever do. Do you understand?”

            “Are you insane? She’s a Carrow—”

            I shove him back into the wall again, and Merlin’s beard, it would be so easy to push that wand a little higher. “I _said,_ do you understand?” I’m cutting off his air supply, my fist pressing into his throat. I know he can’t reply, but I growl, “Do—you—understand?”

            He’s turning red and I’ve got his blood on my wand.

            Someone clears their throat.

            I immediately let Herman go, and he begins coughing. We both look over. We’re both of us fucked if anyone finds out about this.

            Nearly Headless Nick hovers above the floor. He looks sheepish, as if he’s seen something he shouldn’t. Like two grown men—two _professors_ —acting like absolute tits on school property.

            “Apologies for the intrusion,” Nick says, adjusting the ruff around his neck.

            “No apologies needed, Nick,” I reply. My voice is shockingly level. “Herman was just leaving. Weren’t you, Herman?”

            Herman straightens his robes, indignant. “I’ll just collect my things.”

            “I’ll have someone bring them to your classroom,” I say flatly.

            He gazes at me a moment. I see loathing kindling there. I’ve made an enemy for life, that’s for damned sure. Good. I wouldn’t want a prick like this on my side. Herman’s bleeding nose twitches, then he turns on his heel and lopes away.

            I watch him go, making sure he’s getting good and far—and not going in the direction of the Headmistress’s office—before looking at Nick. “You probably interrupted at the right time.”

            “I would have done it myself if I could have,” Nick says, incensed. “I arrived only a moment before you did. Can you imagine! A Hogwarts professor treating a student with such disrespect. A shameful performance.”

            “I’m glad we’re agreed on that. I should really get back to my class, though.” I reach for the door, and I realize I have to tell Nick to keep this between us. The man might be dead, but he’s also an inveterate gossip.

            Before I can say anything, Nick pipes up, “Actually, Professor, I was sent to find you.”

            Slumping, I say, “What now?”

            Nick pulls a face. He looks slightly perplexed. “You have a visitor.”

            Perplexed, I ask, “I what?” No one comes to visit me at Hogwarts. No one really comes to visit anyone. There’s no rule against it or anything, but everyone knows not to do it. The only time it’s acceptable to come to Hogwarts is when one’s child is deathly ill or there’s a Quidditch match. Plenty of parents view both of those events with equal importance.

            “There is a man outside the courtyard. He says he is here to see you.”

            Now I’m stymied. “I’m not—I’m not expecting anyone. Who is it?”

            “He would not give his name, Professor. He said you would know who he was. A very strange fellow, to be honest with you. A touch impertinent, if I’m being quite frank. To be expected.” Nick sniffs, then says with utter disdain, “ _American_.”

           

Walking quickly into the courtyard, I tell myself it can’t be him. It can’t.

            I asked Nick to tell everyone what was homework for next week, but that was all I could do. I needed to get away. I need to take care of this.

            I’m probably wrong. I have to be wrong. Still, though, it does nothing to clear up this mixture of panic and fright that’s taking me over. There is a flicker of something else there too, but I’m mostly panicking at the moment. This is my job. This is my _life_. Other things aren’t allowed to just pop up.

            I stride down the middle of the courtyard, looking for my visitor. I can’t see anyone, and for a moment, I hope that it’s all just been a misunderstanding. That maybe there isn’t anyone at all.

            I’m nearly to the arches when I see him.

            A small, slight figure, down the hill just a little ways. He stands with his back to me, hands in the pockets of his jeans. Unnaturally red hair flying about in the breeze. He reaches up to push it back from his face, then looks back and sees me.

            I stagger to a stop. All I can do is stare at him in disbelief. That’s what we do for a long moment. We just gaze at one another. What else could I possibly do? What am I supposed to _do_?

            Then he looks past me.

            “You were right about the towers,” Baltasar says. His blue eyes take in the castle. “It’s a real architectural marvel.”

            He smiles.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There ends Part Two. Part Three will begin January 28.


	16. Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to Part Three. I'm super grateful for everyone who's made it this far. Your comments and love are very much appreciated. If you need to find me, I can (for the time being) be found at e-sebastian.tumblr.com. I can't make links to save my life, so cut and paste is the name of the game.  
> Also, check out this blog that alibael made! baltasar-at-the-gates.tumblr.com
> 
>  
> 
> __

“What are you doing here?”

            That’s what pops out of my mouth. Not polite, not doing anything other than screaming, _I’m unnerved_. I could kick myself. Or should I? I don’t know what the hell to do.

            Without missing a beat, Baltasar replies, “You invited me.”

            “Yeah, over a month ago,” I say incredulously.

            He arches a brow, losing his smile. “Okay, then.” He turns and starts walking.

            Shit. Shit shit _shit_.

            “No, wait!” I call. I jog after him. Baltasar looks up at me, unimpressed. Pushing my hair away from my face, I scramble to be—what, a good host? “What I meant was—I wasn’t expecting you. That’s all.”

            Baltasar glances past me. “I wasn’t _planning_ on coming,” he says defensively. He sets his eyes back on me, and I’d forgotten. I forgot how he looks at you and only you. “I was in Glasgow, met some witches, they asked me if I wanted to see the Express line. I saw it and just figured, what the hell. Not like I’ll be in Scotland again any time soon. Might as well see—” He gestures at the castle.

            “You flew up here over the Express line?”

            “No, I walked.”

            “You walked?”

            “Yeah, it’s a thing people do. With their feet. So, now I’ve seen the place, and I’ll be going.”

            Baltasar turns again and walks away.

            I feel like a real prat. He didn’t mean anything by this. He’s a world traveller, and I _did_ invite him to come see the most beautiful building in all of Scotland. I’m standing here acting like he’s put me out, and yeah, I’m a bit embarrassed, and I have this insane fear of everyone finding out about him. I don’t know why I’m afraid.

            It was a closed book. It was great, and something that was only mine, and it was supposed to be finished.

            Baltasar stops and says, “The fuck is the closest town from here?”

            “Uh—Hogsmeade.”

            He gives me a look. “Hogwarts, Hogsmeade—you people have some sort of pig fetish? Incidentally, how do you get mead from a hog?”

            “A lot of effort?”

            “Which direction?”

            I point to the south end of the lake. “Down through the valley.”

            “Great. I’ll get there myself.” Baltasar takes off a third time, not sparing me another glance.

            I’m a git.

            I run after him again, catching up quickly. Baltasar just keeps walking, his jaw set. “I’ll walk with you,” I say quietly.

            “Don’t inconvenience yourself,” he mutters.

            We walk in silence for approximately thirty seconds. I am deeply uncomfortable. And I’m also in a kind of happy disbelief as well. I never thought I would see him again.

            Merlin’s beard, he looks good. He’s been somewhere with sun, his colour a shade deeper than before. His hair lifts and falls with the breeze. I remember that I could once reach over and thread my fingers there. He’s not quite as short as I remember, but still short. He could rest his head on my shoulder, if he was so inclined.

            He’s bloody unlikely to do that after how I reacted.

            “How have you been?” I finally ask.

            “Fine. Good.”

            “Where did you end up going?”

            “Going back home didn’t happen. I sort of bounced around south England for awhile, then I met some Frenchmen who invited me down to the Riviera. I met some Glaswegians there. They were fucking great. They’re in this feminist hardcore band, Tituba’s Pestle. I followed them around, performed outside their gigs, made some money. They asked if I wanted to come up to Scotland with them, and since I didn’t have anything else happening—” Baltasar shrugs. “And I already told you the rest.”

            “How long did it take you to get from Glasgow to here?” He certainly doesn’t look like he’s been roughing it in the wilds.

            “Not long. I lied, I didn’t just walk. I apparated across plenty of it.”

            I think that’s the lie. I think he actually walked the track all the way from Glasgow to here. That would have taken him a solid week, not to mention with those short legs.

            He walked all that way, and the first thing I did when I saw him was basically say he wasn’t welcome. Splendid, Neville. Really well done.

            “How’s school?”

            “School’s great,” I say automatically.

            “What’s great about it?”

            “All right—not _great_ , but good. Usual ups and downs.”

            “How’s being principal going?”

            “Again, I am not the principal. I’m Head of House.”

            “So how’s head treating you?”

            I raise my eyes to the clouds. “Just fine.” I think about it, then say, “It’s been interesting.”

            “How interesting?”

            I suddenly realize that he doesn’t know anyone here. I can be honest with him, same as I always have been. “About a minute before you showed up, I punched another professor in the face.”

            “You did not.” I hold up my hand. My knuckles are swollen and red. “You _did_. What kind of school is this?”

            I blush. “The best one. The absolute best. I just lost my temper. He was bullying a student, and I was bullied relentless by one of my professors when I was a child, and I simply—” I put my hands to my face, groaning. “I feel like an idiot.”

            “You feel like an idiot because you stood up for your student?”

            “No, because I forgot to dispose of the body.” Baltasar grins, showing off all the gaps between his small teeth. I’m struck dumb for a second by how handsome he is. Then the panic returns, tugging at my insides. “It’s honestly not like this at Hogwarts. It was an isolated incident.”

            “But people wage wars in that building, right?” Baltasar says, thumbing over his shoulder.

            “I mean—only if a man calling himself the _Dark Lord_ shows up, wanting to eradicate the majority of life on earth.”

            “Excuses, excuses.” Baltasar looks out over the lake. “It is beautiful here.”

            “Don’t get too close.”

            He immediately veers toward the shore. “What, like this?”

            “I’m not joking.”

            Getting even closer, Baltasar says, “Is this making you nervous?”

            All of this is making me nervous. “There’s a giant squid in the lake.”

            “Giant squids don’t live in lakes.”

            “This one does.”

            “You probably believe in the Loch Ness Monster too.”

            “I do, as a matter of fact, because I went there on holiday once and hand fed her. Don’t touch the water.” Baltasar walks right to the water’s edge, and I stop, concerned. “It’s on your own head.”

            He considers the lake, then crouches down. I watch him, this strangely coloured creature in our grey and green landscape. Baltasar sways back and forth. He must be cold. He’s only wearing a denim jacket over a jumper.

            Eventually, he pushes himself back to his feet, but not before grabbing something off the ground. Taking a few steps back, Baltasar winds up, then sends a flat stone skipping off the surface of the lake. It bounces an impressive amount of times, covering a distance that couldn’t be achieved by anything other than magic.

            On its eighth skip, a massive tentacle shoots up from the surface, and slams down on the rock. Baltasar laughs, then says, “Cool.” He walks back to join me, as if it’s something he does every day.

            We take a few more steps together, then I say, “You look good.”

            “Yeah, I do,” he replies, and I grin. I missed his attitude as well. Merlin, I missed _him_. Baltasar points across the lake. “What in the hell is that?”

            He means the xiddig. It stands seven meters high, glorious and bright. “A student was experimenting with one of her plants. She blew up the greenhouse.”

            “Where you work?”

            “Yeah.”

            Baltasar bends his head forward. “Are you all right?” he asks, brow furrowed.

            It’s the most concern anyone has shown me over the incident. Mad things happen at Hogwarts all the time, things explode on a daily basis, so we’ve all become a bit acclimated. If anyone else had asked me in that tone if I was all right, I would have scoffed and brushed them off. Because it’s him, though, I’m rather touched. “I’m fine. Not a scratch. I took more damage punching Herman just now.”

            “Herman. I already hate him.”

            “You should. He’s a twat who prances about like he’s a bloody hero because he lost an ear. He tells everybody it was a dragon, but it was literally in a dog attack when he was pissed.”

            “The war hero is offended.”

            “Oh, fuck off, that’s not—that is not what I’m saying.” Baltasar snickers, and I relax by fractions. It gets easier with every second that passes. “He just deserved being hit, is all. He deserved it.”

            “Yeah, I don’t see you standing idly by when a grown ass man harasses a student. What was his issue?”

            And in this moment, I am so grateful he is here. I am so glad for someone who knows nothing of the situation, who can see things with clear eyes.

            “If you’ve got the time, I’ll tell you about the Carrows.”

            Baltasar takes a second, then says, “I have the time.”

 

We’ve passed the lake and are nearly at the Shrieking Shack by the time I’ve finished telling him about Lavinia Carrow. He’s stayed silent the whole time, letting me talk. I’ve been honest with him, proper honest. He has no personal feelings for me to take into consideration, no ugly history. I can just say what I think without worrying.

            I finally end the story with Nick interrupting our scuffle, and Baltasar says, “So let me get this straight. Even your bleeding heart, liberal friends want to toss this kid in a lake because she’s got shitty relatives?”

            “No, they never said anything—”

            “Fucking unbelievable. This whole island—the Irish too, let’s not exclude them—they are obsessed with blood lines and class and history. An adult could choke on it. Imagine what a kid must feel like. If I was judged based on my parents or grandparents, people would be afraid to touch me. Children aren’t their parents. They don’t have to repeat anyone’s mistakes. Only they will, if people tell them a million times they’re no better than the assholes who came before.” Baltasar puts up his hands, inhaling. “This whole thing just fucking infuriates me, hobbit.”

            I clear my throat, then say, “I didn’t expect you to have such strong opinions.” After all, he’s the one who told me to be careful when it came to Wulfric.

            The look Baltasar casts me says, ‘are you high right now?’ “Listen, I get that you have complicated feelings because of these Death Haters, but—Christ, I don’t even know. It just hits a nerve, I guess.”

            I give it a few seconds, then say, “Death Eaters.”

            “Death what?”

            “Death Eaters, not Death Haters.”

            “Wasn’t your snake Hitler trying to live forever?”

            “He wasn’t my anything.”

            Baltasar says abruptly, “That house is clearly haunted.” I follow his gaze to the Shrieking Shack. It’s slanted precariously. The boards have started to crack over the windows because the house is falling apart. The grass around it is mostly dead.

            “It’s not. It once housed a werewolf, though.”

            “Fuck werewolves,” Baltasar says. “I had one of the worst experiences of my life with a werewolf in Slovenia.”

            “You were attacked?” I ask, alarmed.

            He shakes his head, reaching over to take hold of my sleeve. “No, he gave me the worst blow job of my life. There was so much slobber, Neville, he might as well have been a St. Bernard.”

            I crack up.

            Baltasar smooths his hand over where he wrinkled my sleeve. “So this is what you look like when you’re a real proper wizard.”

            “Suppose so. If I look like a proper wizard, what do you look like?”

            “Like I don’t have to convince anyone I’m a proper wizard.” Baltasar tucks his hair behind his ears and says, “Listen, Neville—the annoying thing about you is that you’ll always do whatever’s right. You might have some weird thoughts concerning this kid, some lingering whatevers because of her family, but there’s a difference between what we think and what we do. People have ugly thoughts all the time that they never act on. That’s just people. You’ve got a bad history with the girl’s family, so what. You’re not going to take that out on her.”

            “No. I wouldn’t.”

            “So stop feeling guilty about something you haven’t done.”

            “When did you get so introspective?”

            “Hey, respect your elders.”

            “That’s true. You are old as the hills.” He shoves me, and I laugh. “Sensitive, are we?”

            “No, I just don’t appreciate your sass.”

            “I’ve rambled on, haven’t I. Why didn’t you get back to Canada?”

            Baltasar takes a deep breath. “Oh…fuck if I know. I’ll probably head back there after this. Regroup. I’ve got friends in Halifax who want me to visit. They’re out of the country until January, though, so I might just roam around Cape Breton for awhile.”

            “I can’t believe I never asked this, but—do you have a home there? Like—an actual house you can go back to.”

            “Do you?” Baltasar returns.

            Touché. I nod backwards. “Hogwarts is where I belong. Coming back here is coming home.” I wait for him to give me an answer, but when he doesn’t, that’s answer enough. “Anyways—”

            “I don’t need a house to have a home. Going back to my grandmother’s house has as much appeal for me as it does for you. I just get that ‘going home’ feeling when I’m in Canada. Like my ties are to the earth. Get that look off your face.”

            I don’t have to ask what look he means. I give it a second, then say, “It sounds lonely, though. Being everywhere and nowhere.”

            “There’s nothing lonely about it. It’s liberating.” Baltasar juts his chin forward. “Is that it?”

            Hogsmeade has appeared in the distance. “It is.”

            “Tell me about it.”

            “Hogsmeade?”

            “No, Inverness. Jesus.”

            Flushing, I say, “Magical community. Not a single Muggle. Lot of shops. The students like to go there. I don’t know that there will be an audience for your tricks.”

            “Nah. I just need to get some sleep. Where’s the best place to get a room?”

            I stall. The Three Broomsticks is clearly the top choice. Only it’s usually packed. Nothing happens there without everyone else knowing. The thought of tossing Baltasar in the middle of that makes me very nervous.

            For fuck’s sake, Neville. If he wanted to, he could have made a mint already selling his story to _The Daily Prophet_.

            “The Three Broomsticks,” I say firmly. “Madam Rosmerta runs the place. Lovely.”

            “The woman or the inn?”

            “Both, if I’m being honest. I had quite the crush on her when I was a teenager. Everyone did, though.”

            “A lot of people there?”

            “It’s the busiest place in Hogsmeade.”

            Baltasar makes a face. Then he asks, “How’s your family all doing?”

            “About the same. Gran is her usual self. My parents haven’t spoken in over thirty years. How about yours?”

            “I presume my grandmother’s still herself. My parents are still dead. So no major changes on my end either. How’s your redwood?”

            “Doing fine, thank you. I think there’s a mango tree spouting near the baobab, and I blame you.”

            “What’s wrong with mangos?”

            “Nothing, really. But my arboretum has a very delicate balance.”

            “You nerd.”

            “Come up with any new tricks lately?”

            “I’m still working on levitating myself non verbally. I’m getting kind of frustrated. I know I can do it, it’s just taking a lot longer than I anticipated. I’ve got a pretty simple one that nearly got me beaten by a drunken Scotsman who thought I was a sorcerer.”

            “You are.”

            “Well, yeah, but he doesn’t need to know that. Name any card from a standard deck.”

            I honestly know more about tarot cards than playing cards, but I give it my best shot. “Eight of hearts.”

            Baltasar stops, and starts to toe his left shoe off. I stand still, watching him in curiosity. He picks up his shoe, tilting it to show me the inside. There’s a playing card upside down on the bottom. He plucks it out and turns it over. Eight of hearts.

            I smile crookedly. “Sorcerer.”

            He shrugs smugly and snaps his fingers, the card disappearing.

 

“What’s that one?”

            “Which one?”

            Rolling his eyes, Baltasar motions to the outskirts of town. “One of these things is not like the other, one of these things does not belong.”

            He means The Boar’s Head. The tallest building in town, askew and filthy, turning black in a village that’s conscientiously upkept by its citizens. “Boar’s Head.”

            “Again with the pigs! There’s some story there that no one’s telling you. Looks like an inn.”

            “It is.”

            Baltasar lets out a grateful sigh and veers off in the direction of The Boar’s Head. “That’s more my speed.”

            I scramble to keep up. I find that there’s a new kind of worry in my heart. There won’t be many people there, but there will be Aberforth. And Aberforth has a long, unforgiving memory.

            “This town is way too cheerful,” Baltasar says, passing some geese running along in single file.

            “Yeah, cheerful. Dreadful, isn’t it.”

            “The happier people look, the more they’re hiding. At least the Leaning Tower of Pisa there doesn’t look like it’s pretending. The food any good there?”

            “Uh—”

            “Never mind, I’ll wander after I’ve had some sleep. I can probably get myself into some trouble.” Baltasar walks around a puddle, then says, “You can stop worrying.”

            “Worrying? Worrying about what?”

            “Your poker face is nonexistent. Regardless of your opinion, I’m always discreet.”

            Coughing, I mumble, “Right.”

            Baltasar lets out a yawn that looks like it’s about to crack off his jaw. “I am so ready to pass out. It’s been a long…I mean, it didn’t take long. I’m just tired. You’re right, I’m getting old.”

            The Boar’s Head appears as we turn a corner, and any comfort I’d felt quickly disappears. What now? Is this goodbye? Again? Or is he going to ask for something else? If he does, I can’t say yes. I obviously can’t say yes. I’m a professor at the most prestigious wizarding school in the world. I can’t just hook up with an itinerant street magician when the mood strikes.

            I don’t even know if the mood is striking. This is all so bloody confusing.

            We come up to the door, then Baltasar turns to me abruptly. “I’ve got it from here.”

            “Right. Um…are you here for awhile or—?”

            “No. This town makes my teeth hurt just looking at it, and it’s not like I could make much money here. I’ll probably just stay long enough to get some rest, then I’ll head out. Cape Breton’s sounding pretty good right now.”

            “Right.”

            There’s a silence, then Baltasar says, “It was good seeing you, Neville.”

            “You too,” I say helplessly.

            He waits for a second to see if I’ll say anything else, then he nods. “Take care.” He turns and walks into the pub.

            “You too.”

            The door shuts, and I…

            Am very lost.


	17. Chapter 17

It has been two days since Baltasar showed up at Hogwarts, and I am no less confused than the moment I saw him.

            I shouldn’t be thinking about him. There’s plenty going on beside him.

            When I went down to breakfast yesterday morning, the entire Great Hall went quiet a moment, then the student body started whispering to one another, glancing at me. I quickly remembered that I hadn’t asked Nick to hold his tongue about what he’d seen. Turning red, I took a seat next to Aida.

            “Morning, killer,” she said without looking up from her plate.

            I groaned, then whispered, “Does every person in the building know?”

            She thought about it, then shook her head. “Nah. Everyone in the _world_ knows.”

            I glanced down the table. Herman was sitting at the opposite end. Even with his face healed, he still looked livid. He was stabbing his sausages like he wished they were my face.

            “Hitting that fool is one thing,” Aida said. “What I’m really curious about is—who the hell was it came to see you?”

            Before I could stumble over an incredibly awkward answer, an icy voice from behind me said, “Professor Longbottom. If you’d be so kind as to join me.”

            “Yes, Headmistress.” I pushed back from the table. I hadn’t felt that particular blend of terror and shame since I was a teenager.

            I followed McGonagall out into the hallway. Surprisingly, she didn’t take me all the way to her office. I wouldn’t have wanted to be there. I didn’t need every witch and wizard who ever ran Hogwarts to see me dressed down for assaulting a colleague.

            McGonagall turned and gave me the full force of her disapproving gaze. “I do not need to tell you that we are here not only to instruct our students in the mandated curricula. We are also here to set an example.”

            “Yes, Headmistress,” I said, fighting the urge to stare at the floor like a guilty schoolboy.

            “If a student had broken another’s nose, what punishment would you impose?”

            “I think it would depend on the situation, ma’am.”

            “I do not.” She said nothing for a long stretch, just leaving me to squirm. But I did not apologize. I knew my actions had been rash, and possibly even unreasonable. I wasn’t sorry, though. I’m still not sorry. I’m glad I hit the bastard. McGonagall took a breath and said, “I am disappointed, Longbottom. I am very disappointed.”

            “Yes, Headmistress.”

            “My disappointment extends beyond you, however. I have spoken to other involved parties about this disturbing situation. Had you kept your temper, Longbottom, we would have been searching for a new Runes professor this morning. Your reaction, however, has put us over the proverbial barrel.”

            “So he gets another chance. After he terrorized a student.”

            “Oddly enough, Professor,” McGonagall bit off, “when you punch a co-worker, you do _not_ get the luxury of the high ground. If he was let go at this point, he would argue that the only witnesses were a man who assaulted him, a child whose name would put the court in knots, and a dead man. As of now, we will continue as we are. And I will have my eyes on the both of you.”

            I started to reply, but she lifted a single, skinny index finger. In that moment, I felt like she could have hexed me without a wand.

            “I consider this subject closed for the time being. Now—who was the man who came to the gates yesterday?”

            I did not think about telling her the truth. Not for a single second.

            “A friend I made on vacation. A Canadian. Backpacking. I was telling him about the school. He decided to pop up to take a look before heading back to Canada.”

            “That’s all?”

            I nearly said, ‘What else could there be?’ But I held my tongue. “Yes.”

            Her expression was inscrutable. I was lying right to her face, but the truth wasn’t hers to have. It was mine, and mine alone.

            Without another word, McGonagall walked around me and back into the Great Hall.

            The last day has been much of the same, over and over again. The students are all extremely attentive. Some seem a bit wary of me. I can’t say as I blame them. I know I’m very easy going and friendly, and I like that about myself. It’s one of my favourite things about myself. It’s likely that a lot of them have looked at me in the past and thought, _him? He fought in the war_?

            And of course, it’s a school, so the rumours are flying. Aida informed me last night that I broke Herman’s jaw. That I threatened to take off his other ear. That I came to Lavinia’s defense after Herman slapped her. That there was a house elf involved.

            It would already be a very stressful day.

            The whole time, I’ve no idea if Baltasar has gone or not.

 

When my sixth years file in, I’m still on edge. I know that some of my colleagues have been teaching long enough that they could recite their lectures even on a dose of Dreamless Sleep. Binns kept on teaching decades after he was _dead_. I, however, am only on my third year, and if I don’t pay attention, I come off like a blundering idiot.

            So I can’t be thinking of whether a certain redhead is still sleeping at The Boar’s Head, even though it’s been two days and he’s obviously already gone. I can’t think of whether Aberforth is going to give me a knowing look the next time I walk in. I can’t know if I’m only a few kilometers from—

            Neville. Stop.

            _It’s only a mistake. And mistakes can be forgiven._

The students have taken their seats, all giving me the same appraising looks I’ve faced for a day and a half. They’re curious, down to the last one—no, that’s not true.

            Fuck. I’d gotten so wrapped up in myself that I didn’t remember this period would bring me my least favourite student. Wulfric is the only one not paying attention to me. He’s gazing out the window, uninterested by his surroundings.

            I need to get on with things. Picking up my wand, I flick it to close the door. “Good afternoon, everyone. I hope you’ve all done the reading assigned to you last class, because we’re going to jump right into the life cycle of the Sumatran ha’penny.”

            I turn to start writing on the board. Just get through two more periods. Then I can have some dinner, go back to my room, drink some of that firewhiskey hiding under my bed, and ignore whether or not The Boar’s Head has a particular customer.

            “Professor?”

            For a second, I pause. I continue writing on the board. “Yes, Wulfric.”

            “Did you _really_ punch Professor Hauer?”

            My chalk stops on the board. I hear little whispers from the other students. The back of my neck warms. I’m not a bad person. I’m a good person. Something about this boy, though—I cannot shake the feeling that nothing will fix what’s broken there.

            Very deliberately, I put the chalk down and turn around. “I’m certain that everyone is very curious, and I understand the impulse. But much as you wouldn’t like your professors prying into your private business, I’d ask why you would pry into the business of your professors.”

            Most of the class deflates, understanding that they’re not going to get a definitive answer. With an expression of mock innocence, however, Wulfric says, “How are we supposed to feel safe, though? Should we really have a professor who’s violent?”

            Colour floods my face. I can see the class react in two ways. Half cringe, some actually physically leaning away from Wulfric. The other half goes furious.

            “Get off it,” Lucien snaps.

            “You sodding hypocrite,” Gulbahar says, outraged. “How are we supposed to feel safe with a sociopath who spells the legs off frogs and throws them in the lake?”

            Wulfric turns to sneer at her, and I put up my hands. “Everyone—enough.” I see tempers rising, so I bark, “I said _enough_.” I cast a stern eye around the room. “We’re here to learn about Herbology. Calm down.”

            Of all the people to say anything, I don’t expect it to be Augustine. “Poor form,” he says to Wulfric.

            Wulfric turns on him. “Don’t go sucking his dick just because you want a reference letter!”

            “Enough!” I yelp.

            “He punched a bloody teacher, and you want to pretend—”

            Lucien leans up from his desk. “You want to talk about violent? How about your murdering parents? When’s the last time you saw them?”

            Wulfric’s face goes white, and I slam my wand down on the desk. A boom echoes through the classroom, startling nearly everyone back into their seats.

            I nod between Lucien and Wulfric. “Twenty five points a piece from Ravenclaw for the both of you.” Lucien tries to protest, but I say, “Apologize to him, or it’s another twenty five.”

            Lucien looks at me in disbelief. I don’t care. No one talks to a student like that in my classroom, regardless of my personal feelings towards the student. I open my mouth to take another twenty five points, but Lucien quickly says, “Sorry, Wulfric.”

            Wulfric is breathing heavily, half primed to leap out of his seat.

            “I want to make something abundantly clear to everyone,” I say, pointing my wand down at the desk. “This classroom is a place of respect. I do not care what your opinion of anyone is. It’s no reason to bring anyone’s relations into it—”

            Wulfric turns his eyes to me and says wildly, “What would _you_ know about it?”

            “Wulfric—”

            His face screws up, and I know that whatever comes next will quite possibly be the worst. “At least my parents did something! At least my parents fought for what they knew was right! _Your_ parents were so weak they lost their fucking minds! They were _weak_ and they got what they deserved!”

            The air vanishes from the room.

            It is so silent that I could hear someone breathe, if they would. No one will. Everyone is holding their breath. We are all staring. The students are staring at me or Wulfric. He’s staring at me. I’m staring at him.

            I lift my wand and the door opens. “Leave this classroom,” I say quietly.

            Wulfric huffs, then grabs his bag. “Gladly,” he hisses.

            As he stands, I say, “Permanently.”

            He stops, looking at me in confusion. “What?”

            “You are no longer welcome in my class. You’ve been given more chances than are reasonable. That stops. I’ve told you repeatedly, this class is an elective. If you don’t want to be here, you don’t have to be. These students have chosen to be here, and you’ve made learning an impossibility for them. So you are no longer welcome in my class.”

            Wulfric stares at me, then says, “How am I supposed to take my NEWTs?”

            “That is not my concern.”

            “I can’t become a potion master if I don’t have Herbology!”

            “Again, that is not my concern. You need to leave. Now. Or we are going to have a problem.”

            Wulfric says hysterically, “A problem? A _problem_?”

            “Wulfric, you need to leave—”

            Emberly Green, one of the Beaters for Gryffindor, gets to her feet. “Do you need help leaving, Wulfric?”

            “Emberly,” I say, “sit down. Wulfric, count your blessings and—”

            “Blessings?” he shrieks. “Blessings?!”

            “Do not—say anything—you will regret. Not more than you already have.”

            Wulfric sucks in a deep breath, and I start cataloguing my options. I’ve never had a student who was actually dangerous in my classroom before. If I tell someone to leave, they’ll sulk for a moment, but then they leave. I’ve never had _this_ before.

            Wulfric turns on the rest of the class and shouts, “You’re all sheep! All of you! You’re not witches and wizards, you’re traitors and half breeds and mudbloods!”

            I step around my desk, saying, “That’s enough—”

            “You’ll see! You’ll see, when the Alliance makes everything the way it should be! I’ll remember! I’ll remember all of you!”

            Some of the other students are getting to their feet, half ready to attack. “Everyone, _sit down_!” I yell.

            Wulfric whirls around on me. “You’re the worst! Blood traitor! They should have killed you when they got your parents, you filthy, mudblood-loving traitor! You’re just like your parents.”

            Without even thinking, I say, “I could say the same.”

            Wulfric’s wand is suddenly in his hand, and he swings it towards me. At the top of his lungs, he starts to scream, “ _Cru_ —”

            I let out the hardest _Expelliarmus_ of my life inside my own head. Wulfric’s wand tears from his hand and comes sailing across the room. I snatch it out of the air, and everything goes still.

            For the second time in as many minutes, everything is very quiet.

            Wulfric is wheezing, wide eyed and mad-looking. I can see realization start to seep in there, but it’s too late. It is far too late.

            Lowering my wand, I say softly, “And that, everyone, is how you get expelled from Hogwarts.”

 

I get to my bedroom earlier than usual. Most days, I eat supper with everyone, then putter about in my office or the greenhouse awhile, in case the students have any issues. Today, though, when I get out of McGonagall’s office, I go right to my room.

            I sit on the edge of my bed, not bothering to remove any of my things. I’m holding my wand in my hands. I need something to hold onto.

            What an ugly thing. What an ugly, ugly day this turned out to be.

            The Aurors had to be called. Of course they did. A student tried to cast an Unforgivable Curse on a professor. He tried to use the same curse on me that was used on my parents. Never mind me, he could have killed another student, the way he was working himself up.

            He denied everything. Of course he did. But there were two dozen students who saw exactly what happened. The Aurors interviewed every one of them as well.   

            It was insane, watching him. Wulfric insisted that he hadn’t done anything, that we were all falsely accusing him. He seemed to actually believe it. Or rather, he believes he did nothing wrong. He’s certain he did nothing wrong. He wasn’t out of control, not like earlier. He was irate, however, that we were somehow cheating him.

            I thought…

            I honestly thought he might have a chance. I’ve dealt with a boy like that before. Draco Malfoy was worse than Wulfric. That’s what I told myself a hundred times over. Draco turned out fine. If that miracle could occur, then there was hope for Wulfric. There had to be.

            I was wrong.

            He’s off school grounds. The wards have been spelled to set off alarms if he tries. His guardian came to get him. A slim, severe woman with jet black hair. She got in after the Aurors had already been there an hour. She walked right into the room and said, “Wulfric, stop speaking. _Now_.” His mother’s sister, apparently. Wulfric tried to argue with her, but she followed that up with, “Or you won’t have a home to go to.” He wanted to keep speaking—he’d been telling us the entire time that we were all out of touch, that the MA would show us right—but he reluctantly held his tongue.

            The aunt wanted to take him home, but the Aurors told her he’d have to go back to the Ministry with them. I thought she would argue, but she didn’t.

            Before he left, Wulfric took one more look at me. “You’ll be first,” he snarled at me.

            At that, his aunt slapped him over the back of the head. “ _Enough_ ,” she growled. One of the Aurors took hold of his arm and marched him out of the office, and Wulfric struggled to get free the entire time.

            I didn’t have anything else to say to McGonagall, and she had nothing else to say to me.

            There’s been whispers. Everywhere. About the MA. We all _know_ what they’re about. But they carry this veneer that can be debated. No one is coming out and saying their plan is to destroy Muggles. It’s enough so that people with hateful views can claim civility without being called fascists. They believe the ideology, but don’t want the stigma attached. The MA has claimed to simply be conservative. Not dangerous.

            Bollocks.

            This is what happens when people talk about ‘returning to traditional values.’ It only means going back to a place in time where bigotry was the legislative policy. You can wrap it in as many words as you like. It all comes back to two words in the end: hatred and ignorance.

            The MA makes people like Wulfric feel safe. They put on a good show in the press, but kids like Wulfric are too young and reckless and hormonal to play along with the long game. They want what they want and they want it now. They find their hatred liberating. They look at their elders and think, ‘you’re taking this too slow.’ They have no issue with saying what they mean, plain, outspoken. That’s why children make for terrifying soldiers. There’s no nuance in their belief.

            I imagine the MA will scramble after this. Today’s events will make it into the papers. How could they not? Student, son of Death Eaters, attempts Unforgivable Curse in a classroom. On a professor who has a reputation of his own. The papers will report Wulfric’s MA leanings. The MA will disavow him, saying they’re only an advocacy group, not a hate organization. They’ll throw him under the bus publicly, and privately celebrate him.

            I don’t want another war. The idea…it _horrifies_ me. I did all right with the after effects of the war. I don’t wake up screaming, I don’t need to shut myself away on every terrible anniversary, I don’t weep for long lost comrades. I have friends who do all those things, on a regular basis, and I’ve never judged them for it. In some ways, that seems like the only sane response. Maybe I’m simply too thick to be affected like that. But I have the memories. I have the memories of those times, and unlike many people I know, I’m back in the place where it all happened. I can see the faces of the children who will be hurt if this castle is under siege.

            It didn’t occur to me until I became a teacher what my professors must have thought in the last war. Some of them, at least. Dumbledore was a great wizard, but—well, I’ve got complicated feelings about that. And Snape, I don’t have plural feelings about him, more like one honed, frustrated rage.

            The others, though. Professor Sprout. What did she think when the war was gearing up? When her kids were dying? I’ve never asked her. I almost think I should.

            Madam Hooch and I talked about it once. It was her retirement party, the last day of my first year teaching. Everyone was properly sozzled. At one point, Flitwick went galloping across the room atop Fang. I was off on my own, enjoying myself, but eager to get home to Ginny. Hooch dropped down at my table with a half empty tankard of beer and proceeded to tell me that she had come to like me, despite the fact that I was hopeless at flying and would have gotten myself killed if I’d ever set foot on a Quidditch pitch. We started talking about the old days, and near the end of her glass we got to the war.

            “Have you ever felt helpless, Longbottom?” Hooch asked, squinting at me with blood shot red eyes.

            “Yes.”

            “Not yet,” she said bluntly. “You won’t know the meaning of the word until the army’s at the doors and you have a flock of eleven-year-olds around you and it’s occurred to them, for the very first time, that they won’t live to see twelve.” She raised her glass to me. “ _Then_ —then you’ll know what helpless means.”

            I have to shut my eyes. Something I’d forgotten was how constant the fear is. This time, though, I will be able to see it coming from years away. I will have so much time to fear what’s to come.

            My fireplace starts to crackle, and then a little purple _poof_ comes from it. A little voice calls, “Hello?”

            Furrowing my brows, I get up and walk over until I can see who’s calling. Rose Granger-Weasley is on her hands and knees, peeking through my fireplace.

            “Uncle Nev!” she says with delight.

            “Hello, Rosie girl,” I reply, resting my hands on my knees. “I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

            “I knew I could do it,” Rose says.

            I raise a brow. “Do your mum and dad know what you’re doing?”

            She pulls a face. “Mum’s still at work. Dad’s making supper.”

            I let myself down on the floor. “Rose, you know you’re not allowed to make calls on the fireplace. I mean—you’re not, right? Please tell me you’re not.”

            “I mean—not _technically_.”

            I snort, hearing this child with her wild red hair using that word. She sounds exactly like Hermione. “What would have happened if you hadn’t gotten the right fireplace, eh? What if you got some strange old man who didn’t want to be bothered?”

            From her face, I can tell the thought hadn’t even occurred to her. Now she’s starting to look a bit queasy. “Um…”

            “So no firecalling without Mum and Dad, all right?”

            “Okay.” Playing with her fingers, Rose says guiltily, “I wanted to talk to you, though. And Dad said you were too busy.”

            After a moment, I smile. “Rosie girl—I am _never_ too busy to talk to you. What did you want to tell me?”

            Eyes lighting up, Rosie settles in. “I wrote a story about Hogwarts! And I wanted to read it to you.”

            Leaning forward, I tell her, “I am all ears.” I lift my wand, and I give myself a few extra sets of ears, just to hear her giggle.

            Just to see her smile.

 

She’s on the bit with the merpeople when I hear Ron yelp, “Rose! What on earth are you—” He bends down, long hair flopping over. “Nev— _Rose_. What did I tell you?”

            “But I wanted to tell Uncle Nev about my story,” Rose says, trying to look guileless and failing.

            Ron drops down on his haunches. “Rose. We’ve discussed this. You’re not old enough to firecall.” She tries to protest, but Ron says, “End of story.” He points in my direction. “Say goodnight to Uncle Neville and go wash up for dinner.”

            “But I didn’t finish my story—”

            Ron’s voice drops, and his tone is Molly, through and through. “Rose Aurora Granger-Weasley.”

            With a pout, Rose gets up and storms off.

            “Hey! Say goodnight to Uncle Nev!” She doesn’t break stride, turning the corner. Ron sighs and turns back to me, dropping on his arse. “Sorry, Nev.”

            “You should be sorry. We were just getting to the merpeople. You ruined the story for me.”

            “The next bit’s about unicorns. About six volumes worth. I really am sorry, Nev, I know you’re busy—”

            “No. No, I was glad to see her. I could use a friendly face.”

            “You all right? Little blighters gave you a rough day?”

            “What about you?” I ask, not wanting to talk about it. “Concocting new tricks to torment us with?”

            “Oh, George almost blew his other ear off today, but you know him. He does that about once a month. Seriously, though—are you all right? You look a bit peaky.”

            Might as well tell him. Otherwise he’ll find out in the papers. “Well, one of my students tried to _Crucio_ me today.”

            Ron stares at me, then yells, “What?!” I shrug, adjusting my robes. “Was it that little Brult prick?”

            “One and the same.”

            “Did he hurt you? Did he hurt any of the students?”

            “The only thing he hurt was any hope of a meaningful future for himself. I had the wand out of his hand before he could even get the second syllable out.”

            “Do you think he could have done it? How old is he?”

            “Sixteen.”

            Grimly, Ron says, “He could have done it. Fuck. Nev, that’s—I mean, it’s expected, but it’s still shitty. The Brults carry on a proud legacy, eh?”

            “I’m worried they’re going to put him in Azkaban.”

            “They can have a family reunion.”

            “He’s sixteen, Ron. Come on.”

            “And the little prick tried to _Crucio_ you! I don’t have to be sentimental about him. Sixteen, though—that’s on the cusp for Azkaban.”

            “He was using an Unforgivable Curse. Doesn’t matter if he’s an adult or not. The Ministry will have to figure out what to do with him.”

            “Other people saw this, right?”

            “He did it in a full classroom.”

            “Good.” At my look, Ron rushes to say, “I don’t mean _good_. I mean, it’s a good thing that he did it in front of witnesses. So he won’t be able to wriggle out of things. There’s been too much of that in the past.”

            “The Brults aren’t like the Malfoys, Ron. They don’t have money. The only thing they have is their name and their blood status. That’s not much for currency. The thing to worry about is the MA.”

            “Fucking hell, you don’t think they’ll get involved, do you?”

            “I’m not sure. He was spouting their propaganda before he tried to torture me. They’ll tell _The Prophet_ they’re unaffiliated with him, then buy him counsel behind the scenes.” I shrug, suddenly even more tired than before. So tired I feel like I can barely speak. “I don’t know, mate. It’s all…a bit of a mess.”

            “There’s an understatement.” Ron threads his fingers into his hair, lifting it off his face. “You should come down here this weekend for a visit. We could all go to the Burrow. Mum will be sick once she hears about this.”

            “Nah. I need to stay up here. Make sure things are under control.”

            “Nev, mate, you have to take a day off.”

            “It’s easier said than—”

            “No excuses. You need to do it. Seriously, everyone around me is just—working themselves to death. ‘Mione found a grey hair the other day, and if that’s not to do with work, I don’t know what is. It’s not the end of the world if all you responsible adults just have some time to yourself. And trust me, I’m not naïve—I have two kids and a business and everything else to look after. But I’m not working myself into an early grave.”

            “You’re working _me_ into an early grave with all your stupid wheezes.”

            “It’s good fun. I go to work and have a real laugh. You did too, once upon a time.”

            “Ron, I love teaching.”

            “Yeah, all right. But you loved having your shop. You had days off when you ran the shop.”

            “What’s more important? Selling plants or shaping the minds of the next generation?”

            “It’s Herbology, not Philosophy.”

            “It’s a work ethic, and a sense of curiosity, and—”

            “Yeah, all right. But honestly, I worry that you’re going to fossilize up there. We all miss you. You really should come down to the Burrow. Everyone would be thrilled to see you.” I shrug, uncomfortable. As time goes on, I can’t help but feel that I’m trespassing on a family that is not my own. Ron says, “Ginny will be there.”

            That was a gamble, and it’s backfired on him. “Not this weekend, mate. But thanks.”

            “Nev—when’s the last time you saw her?”

            “It’s nothing to do with you—”

            “It’s everything to do with me. It’s my best mate and my only sister. Seriously, when is the last time you saw her? You didn’t show up for Christmas last year, so—when’s the last time?”

            “The day I moved up here.”

            Ron stares at me, then says, “A _year_? You haven’t seen each other in a year—”

            “Ron, it really has fuck all to do with you—”

            “Oh shut up. A year. Don’t you miss her?”

            I have to take a deep breath. “Ron. Your sister and I are broken up. We’re not getting back together. Seeing her won’t change that. She’s got her own life to live.”

            “Don’t I know it,” he mutters.

            I give him a second, then say, “What does that mean?”

            Ron sighs, frustrated. “She’s seeing someone,” he says, not meeting my eyes.

            I wait for more, but he doesn’t elaborate. “And?”

            “And I hate him. He’s an idiot. He’s got no common sense, and he sounds like he’s choking every time he laughs. He’s the absolute worst.”

            “But Ginny likes him.”

            “The hell if I know. She looks embarrassed every time she brings him around.”

            “And she’s been doing that a lot?”

            “Well…twice.”

            If he thinks I’ll feel jealous, he’s wrong. I’m sad. I’m sad that it’s not me. I’m sad I’m not with her. And still, I know I made the right decision. We both did. “Ron, there’s worse things happening than Ginny meeting someone she likes. I’m glad for her. All I care about is that she’s happy.”

            “Don’t be mature about this. It’s frustrating.” Ron shrugs. “Look, I get that you’re not getting back together. It’s just…disappointing for everybody. Yeah?”

            “Yes, Ron. _I’m_ the one who thought I’d be her husband.”

            “You could still be—” He stops at the look I give him. “What about you?”

            “What about me?”

            “You been seeing anybody?”

            I’m rather proud of how I don’t even flinch. “Not really.”

            “Well, maybe you should.” Ron opens his hands, looking like he’s not quite sure what he wants to say. “Maybe you’re not with Gin, but none of us like the idea of you being alone either. We just don’t like the idea of you being up there by yourself, getting old, never doing anything other than what you’re expected to do.”

            “We?” I say.

            Ron scowls at me, then says, “Me, okay? I don’t like the idea of it.”

            “You’ve gotten so warm and tender over the years—”

            “Piss off,” he groans. “Listen, make fun of me all you like. But if you do nothing up there other than teach and be a good example, then what the hell’s the point?”

            “What’s the point supposed to be?”

            Ron narrows his eyes and says, “To _live_ , you idiot.”

 

I rap on the door with my knuckles, then stand back. I rub at my chest, trying to catch my breath. Also, my knee hurts. I tripped on a rock and I’ll probably have a bruise tomorrow from pitching over on my face. Still—I’m here.

            When Baltasar opens the door, I don’t think, I just act. I almost lunge at him, taking his face in my hands and kiss him violently enough that he lets out a muffled cry. I’m bigger than him by a fair shot, and I nearly bowl him over.

            As soon as I do it, I start to come back to my senses.

            Dropping my hands, I pull back across the doorway. “Sorry! That was rash.” He’s staring up at me. He reaches up to touch his lip, because I’ve cut him, Merlin save us. I cover my eyes a second. “I don’t know what I was thinking, I am so sorry—”

            He puts out a hand and I jerk forward. Snatching me by the front of the robes, Baltasar shoves me around and back onto the bed. He flicks his wrist, and the door slams shut.

            “Rash is good,” Baltasar says, then climbs on top of me. His red hair falls around me, curtaining my face, and his mouth tastes of blood and possibility.


	18. Chapter 18

“What’s your secret dream?” Ginny asked me.

            “My secret dream?”

            “Mm. The thing you want but have never been brave enough to tell anyone.”

            We were in a hotel room in Portugal. We’d only been together a few weeks, and I had a few days off, so I had come out to surprise her. We knew each other, of course we did, but not in this way.

            She lay beside me, her hands tucked up under the pillow. She looked tired and pleased. She looked at me in a way that no one ever had before. Like just the sight of me was enough to light her inside.

            “I don’t know that I have any secret dreams,” I told her.

            “That’s a lie. Everyone has a secret dream.”

            “What’s yours?”

            “If I told you, it wouldn’t be secret.” I smiled, reaching over to touch her lower lip. Ginny gave my fingertip a quick kiss, then said, “My secret dream is quite silly.”

            “I like silly.”

            “I want to win the World Cup for Fred.”

            After a moment, I said, “That’s not silly at all.”

            “He was a real git, you know? Him and George both. They either babied me or excluded me. I hated them absolutely on more than one occasion. I once spelled Fred’s mouth shut for a whole day and he was too embarrassed to tell anyone who’d done it. So he turned my whole face into a freckle.” Ginny turned onto her back, taking her watch off the bedside table. I’d gotten my hair caught in the band once. “When all the boys played for Gryffindor, everyone was proud. I mean, Mum would gripe about how dangerous it was, but underneath she was proud too. Dad’s like any heterosexual male. Mad about the game. Everyone time we played in the backyard, I’d play too, but none of them ever thought I’d really do it. It never occurred to them. When they found out I’d be playing for Gryffindor, I thought they’d be pleased. Just like they’d been for the boys. But they were all shocked. My brothers seemed confused. Dad had no idea what to say. It was like the thought never crossed his mind. Mum lost it, ranting about how dangerous it was. Do you know what Fred said to me about it?”

            “What’s that?”

            “He said, ‘We were supposed to win this year.’ I said, ‘We _will_ win this year.’ And he gave me this patronizing look and said, ‘Sure, Gin.’ Prick.” Ginny turned her eyes back to me. “I want to win the Cup to prove what an ass he was. And because I want to make him proud. Everyone is so soft about him now. They act like he was this prankster who never really meant any harm. But he could be a bully, and condescending, and just…he never had a chance to grow up. I know that. He was getting better towards the end, there. I think that we could have been good friends, eventually. I’m not saying he was terrible, Nev. He was great, and I loved him. But he was my brother, and brothers are the worst.”

            “Family, eh?”

            “Yes.” Ginny suddenly cringed. She lightly poked my chest. “Here I am complaining about my brothers, and you never had any.”

            “I’ve never really thought about it.”

            “Do you think your parents would have had more children?”

            “I’ve never really thought about that either.”

            “Because it’s too sad, or it just hasn’t crossed your mind?”

            “It’s pretty sad.” She nodded. She ran her short fingernails lazily up and down my chest. I watched her, and said, “Do you want to hear my secret dream?”

            “I do.”

            So I told her.

 

I run my fingers through Baltasar’s hair. Despite whatever’s he’s done to it, it’s still healthy. It feels like silk. “Why did you choose red?” I ask.

            He’s laying on my chest, the way he always would. It feels good to have that weight on me. I can’t see his face, but I can feel his thumb on my side, stroking back and forth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is my natural colour.”

            I touch the black roots and say, “Yes, very natural.”

            I’m not sure how late it is, but it’s definitely late. I feel hollowed out of all my stress. It’s like my worries have been whisked away.

            “I’ve never dyed my hair,” I say.

            “You’re blonde. You won the genetic lottery.”

            “What do you do to it? Is it a spell?”

            “Is this your subtle way of asking me to dye your hair?”

            “No. Merlin, no.”

            “Then this is my natural colour. Stop harrassing me about it.” Baltasar lays his hand flat against my side, his ear pressed to my chest. I wrap an arm around his back. We fit together astonishingly well.

            I didn’t expect to do this. I was talking to Ron and then I was just walking. Walking at quite a clip, to be honest. I don’t know. I just…wanted him, so badly. In my head, I had it that I’d never see him again. Seeing him the other day, it made me think of this summer, and how there was none of this pressure. None of the responsibility. Just doing a thing because it made me happy.

            It wasn’t light and easy. It never was. A summer affair sounds like beach chairs and breezes. Behind closed doors, though, it was nearly always intense. Even when it wasn’t, there was this undercurrent of things threatening to turn that way.

            And tonight, that didn’t change in the least. Only this time there was a place to put all my frustrations. To turn it into something… Well. I can feel where his fingernails broke skin. Because I made him do it.

            “Have you slept with anyone since this summer?” I ask.

            “Mm.”

            “Who?”

            “Jealous?”

            “No. Curious, is all.”

            “Some guy in France. It wasn’t in any way memorable.”

            “Am I memorable?”

            Baltasar lifts his head, resting his pointed chin on my chest. “What just happened, you think that’s easy to forget?”

            “Not for me, at least.”

            His blue eyes drill into mine. “Your thirteen inches continue to be more than respectable.”

            “Fuck off.”

            “Just because I’ve fucked men on every continent except Antartica doesn’t mean I don’t remember the good ones.” Baltasar digs his chin into my chest, just enough to hurt. I wince. “I know you haven’t fucked anyone since summer.”

            “What, was I rusty?”

            “No. You were just ready to explode.” He lays his head down again. “I liked it.”

            I’m not sure what to do. So instead I do nothing. I touch his hair and feel his warmth, and I allow myself to be in this moment and no other.

            When a few minutes have gone by, I say, “Can you—” Baltasar starts, lifting his head. I realize he was half asleep. “Can you do that thing you do with your hand?”

            He squints at me, then shrugs. “Okay,” Baltasar says, and he’s suddenly reaching between my legs.

            “ _No_. The thing with the fire.”   

            Baltasar looks at me incredulously. “You want me to burn your taint?” he whispers.

            “No—” It gets warm down there _quite_ abruptly. I grab his arm, yanking it back up. “ _No_ ,” I say, half irritated, half chuckling.

            Smug, Baltasar snaps his fingers. A little flame bursts there. “That thing?”

            “Yeah, that thing, like you didn’t know. You were always doing that.”

            “It’s a nervous tic. I’m not nervous.”

            He snaps his fingers again, and I blow the flame out. On a whim, I say, “Tell me what your secret dream is.”

            “My what?”

            “The dream you have that you’ve never told anyone. What you really want for yourself. A fantasy. Tell me your secret dream.”

            “No.”

            “Come on. Please.”

            Baltasar shakes his head. “No.” He lays down again on me, settling.

            “You won’t even make something up?”

            “No. It doesn’t interest me.”     

            I jostle his shoulder. “If I told you what my secret dream was, will you tell me then?”

            “No.”

            “It’s embarrassing. You’ll have to tell me.”

            “I’m not going to tell you, Neville,” Baltasar murmurs, cuddling against me.

            I tap my fingers over his back. I give it a few seconds, then I say, “When I was younger, my secret dream was to fix my parents. I didn’t say it until I was in my twenties because it seemed disrespectful. Like I was trying to invalidate their sacrifice. But then I really started to research, and I thought to myself—this is doable. I’d put away a lot of the childish dreams when I was younger. What it would be like if they were around. Picturing them seeing me off at King’s Cross every fall. Just hearing them speak. I’ve never heard them speak, not once in my life. People think that Herbology is a lot of nonsense. They say things about it that they never would about Potions, even though you’d never have Potions without Herbology. The natural world is teeming over with magic. With solutions. I had all these ideas of ways I could make them better. At first, it seemed like there were a thousand different directions to go in. That’s the dangerous bit, you know? There’s a thousand bits of circumstantial evidence; can’t discount it. That’s how I thought. All these whispers, they must mean something. But it didn’t. They were just whispers, saying things that people hoped for instead of what was true. A thousand bits of circumstantial evidence doesn’t prove anything. You have to learn that the hard way. I was so certain that I was going to do it that I told everyone. I told all the people I knew that’s what I’d do, I’d fix my parents, so that it wouldn’t just be a secret dream. I told them to make myself accountable. I was arrogant. I was so very arrogant. There’s solutions for all kinds of problems, but not a solution for _every_ problem. I worked on it for years. Did every experiment. I experimented on them. I got frustrated with them. I was more frustrated with myself, but I was doing everything I could think of to make them better, and they couldn’t give me anything. They had never given me anything. They loved me, sure, but…they loved me thirty years ago. They haven’t been able to do a single thing since then. It’s not like I decided to stop working on it one day. Nothing went drastically wrong. Mum turned a lovely shade of periwinkle once, and Dad grew a spare mouth on his neck, but that was the extent of the noticable side effects. One day, instead of going out to the workshop, I took Ginny to dinner. One weekend, instead of going to St. Mungo’s, we went to see Seamus and Dean. It all just slipped. Until eventually, it was just a silly thing I’d done when I was younger. A silly thing I had believed in. I understand why I did it, but it doesn’t mean I’m not embarrassed at how presumptuous it was. So that was my secret dream. Fix them. I never did. Because they can’t be.” I give it a few seconds, then I say, “The dream I have now is pretty unreasonable. I’ll tell you if you tell me what yours is.”

            There is no response, just a steady rhythm of inhales and exhales.

            I lift my head. “Baltasar?” He’s fallen asleep. He rises and falls with my breaths. I pat him on the back, and I watch the ceiling for a long while, until I fall asleep as well.

 

I get back to the castle before the sun comes up. It is a new and distressing feeling. I’ve never done the proverbial walk of shame to Hogwarts before.

            I feel a bit frayed. I didn’t get much in the way of sleep. Then I snuck out of there like I was ashamed. Gathered my things, tiptoeing around, cringing with every creak. I didn’t even say goodbye. As if he meant nothing. I’m ashamed of that more than anything.

            What are you doing, Neville? Honestly, what are you doing?

            I think I messed things up more than if I’d never gone to the inn at all. When I showed up last night, Aberforth gave me a long look before telling me which room Baltasar was in. And when I left this morning, he scared the shit out of me by saying from a dark corner, “It’s early, Longbottom.” I mumbled something and fled. So eager to run away, when all I wanted last night was to be there.

            I could have just let him go. I could have let him disappear. I should have, but no. Baltasar clearly understood that I wasn’t thrilled to have him here, and he gave me all the room to escape possible. _I’m_ the one who showed up on his doorstep and cut his lip open with my eager, foolish teeth.

            I groan, stumbling along. What now? I just kept things open. I’m the one who tried to have a soul bearing conversation.

            What does he want? Why is he here? It can’t be the architecture. I can’t really believe that he came here for me. Except he did, I know he did, and I’m being bizarre about it. I’m sending all manner of mixed messages.

            I didn’t have to do this for ten years. I don’t know what I’m doing.

            I can’t go back there. That’s it. It’s not smart. I’ll just politely ignore Baltasar and go back to the current disaster of my life and pretend it never happened. Good. Right.

            Fuck.

           

I don’t go straight to my bedroom, because I can see lights turning on all over the castle, and I’ll have to go through a whole gaggle of students if I mean to get to my quarters. Instead, I make for my office instead. I keep several sets of spare robes in there for when my clothes get destroyed during class.

            Of course there’s someone waiting for me. Evangeline Pluck is sitting on the chair outside my office, anxiously jiggling her leg up and down. When she spots me, she leaps to her feet. “Sir.”

            I leave for a few hours and something goes wrong. Typical. “Did something happen? What’s wrong?”

            “I can’t get hold of Olive.”

            I wait a moment, then say, “Yes?”

            Evangeline lets out the most put upon sigh, the kind of sigh that’s the sole province of teenage girls. “I’ve tried owling, I’ve tried firecalling—”

            I put a hand on the door and whisper to it, “Wildrose.” Hypocrite. I am a hypocrite. Opening the door, I go inside, Evangeline following. “Olive is busy right now—”

            “Not too busy for me. Olive is never too busy for me.”

            I’m almost afraid to shed my overrobes. What if my clothes aren’t—in the best shape? Screw it. Unbuttoning my heavy outer robes, I say, “Olive needs to focus on her parents at the moment.”

            “I would have heard something,” Evangeline insists, standing rigid before my desk. “They would have let me know. Something’s wrong, I know it is.”

            “Evangeline, have a seat—”

            “No, not if you won’t listen—”

            “I’m trying to tell you—”

            “Something is _wrong_ —”

            I’m so tired that—I just speak. “Yes, her parents are in comas, and it’s not about you.” The second it leaves my mouth, I want to slap myself. I’m a good professor. I’m kind. Just because I didn’t get much sleep last night doesn’t mean I can be tetchy. Raising my hands, I say, “Listen—Evangeline. The Gruyeres are both in hospital. Olive is staying with her grandparents. I spoke with them yesterday. She’ll be down there for the time being. I understand that you are very concerned. You should be. Olive means a great deal to you. But right now, you need to give her space. She will let you know when she’s ready to talk.”

            Evangeline stares at me. “Olive would answer me.”

            “She’s—she is dealing with something very serious right now. It doesn’t involve you. If you want to be a good friend, let her dictate what’s going to happen. I’m sure she knows that you’re eager to hear from her, but you’re not going to help things by forcing your way into the situation.”

            “I’m not.”

            “You may not realize it, but this is something you need to let alone. Trust me. She will call you when she’s ready—”

            Evangeline cries out, “Stop saying that!”

            I take a breath, then say calmly, “I can only tell you so many times that she needs to be alone—”

            “No! Stop saying ‘she’! Olive isn’t a girl! You don’t know Olive at all!”

            I stare at her for a second. Then I lift my hand and the door closes.

            Pointing at the chair, I say, “Sit down.” Evangeline opens her mouth to argue, but I lower my voice. “Young lady. Sit down. Please.” She scowls, then drops onto one of my rolling chairs. She almost tips herself over at first. I take a moment to rub my hands over my face. It’s too early for this. When I’ve gathered my thoughts, I look at Evangeline. “Is that something Olive would want you to tell me?”

            Evangeline wavers. She looks down, skin beginning to flush.

            “I think that if Olive wanted the school to know something like that, we would know. Since this is the first I’ve heard about it, I’m assuming this is something Olive wants to keep to…himself?”

            Evangeline murmurs, “Themself.”

            Too early. “All right. Now, I understand that you’re upset. You’re worried, and you are frightened. But that in no way gives you the right to reveal that information about someone. How would Olive feel, if—they knew you’d just told me that?”

            After a few seconds, Evangeline whispers, “I didn’t mean to.”

            “We do things we don’t mean when we’re upset. I know. Only right now, you’re thinking about yourself instead of Olive. I know you think you’re doing it for—their benefit, but you’re not behaving like it. I expect more from you, and they do as well. Are you listening to me?”

            “Yes sir.”

            “What I need you to do is go about your day. It’s going to be dreadful. I’m not saying it won’t be. When someone we love is hurting, it’s difficult to focus on anything else. But Olive is with h—their family, and they are where they need to be right now. I’m sure Olive will be in touch with you soon, but right now, you need to let it alone. All right?”

            “Yes sir.”

            “And I strongly suggest that when Olive returns, you tell them that you told me.” Evangeline looks at me with fright, and I continue, “You should tell Olive, and apologize. I’m not saying that you have to, but now that I know, I want to make sure that Olive gets all the support they need. I can’t call Olive something when I know it’s hurting them, and I can’t pretend that I don’t know I’m hurting them. It’s not the way I’m made. And I think that when a person makes a mistake, they should own it. Does that seem unreasonable?”

            “No sir.”

            “All right. Off you go.” Evangeline stands up, looking queasy, and I say, “Evangeline—if I hear from Olive’s grandparents again, I _will_ let you know.”

            She relaxes, just the slightest bit. Evangeline hesitates, then points towards her neck. “I think you’re bleeding, sir.” She walks away.

            I wait until she’s out the door before standing and going to the mirror on the wall. There are three very obvious spots of blood on my collar.

            I drop my face against the mirror and groan, “Too early.”

 

“Oy, you.”

            I’m about to sit to down to eat lunch, my arse grazing the seat. Aida comes striding up. “What?” I say, dreading whatever she needs to tell me.

            “Missus needs you. Brult’s solicitor showed up.”

            Annoyed, I stand back up. “They moved fast.”

            “They usually do.”

            I enter the Headmistress’ office five minutes later, reminding myself to hold my temper. I won’t do anyone any favours by rising to the bait. And there will be bait, make no mistake about it.

            Yes. Bait for days. The man sitting in front of McGonagall’s desk is Chester Dynes. I know who he is too well. He’s in robes that are too expensive for the situation, dark hair slicked back, face just a touch too perfect. He gives me a faint smile, but it comes nowhere near his eyes.

            McGonagall says flatly, “Professor Longbottom—Mr. Dynes has come to discuss young Brult’s situation.”

            “Interesting,” I reply, taking a seat. “I didn’t think the Brults had the money to afford Mr. Dynes’ services.”

            “I do pro bono work,” Dynes says. His voice is thin and reedy. “Good works don’t have to come with a price tag.”

            McGonagall and I glance at each other. “Quite,” she says. Folding her hands on the desk, she gives Dynes the barest of smiles. “Now that Professor Longbottom is present, you wished to have a word, Mr. Dynes?”

            Dynes crosses his legs at the knee, hooking an arm over the back of his chair. I can practically see a vein pulsing in McGonagall’s forehead. If a student sat on a chair like that in this office, she’d strap him with her tongue.

            “We were hoping that we could clear up this misunderstanding.”

            “I don’t follow, Mr. Dynes. I’m unaware of any misunderstanding.”

            “That may be the problem, Professor McGonagall—”

            “Headmistress,” I say. “Headmistress McGonagall.”

            Dynes smiles a touch wider. “Of course. Forgive me, Headmistress. Back in my day, you were still a Professor. Old habits die hard.” Like hell. “As I was saying, we were hoping to deal with this swiftly, and to make sure the boy gets the help he needs.”

            “That may be up to the Ministry,” McGonagall says.

            “We’re all adults here. Surely we can come to some agreement.”

            “Mr. Dynes, we’re not in the habit of circumventing the workings of the Ministry.”

            He smirks. Bait. Bait, Neville. “Does this really need to go through the Ministry? We’re talking about a child acting out.”

            “Acting out? Mr. Brult attempted an Unforgivable Curse.”

            “That may be up for interpretation. As I understand it, my client didn’t actually speak the word.”

            “It’s an interesting interpretation,” I reply, “but there’s the memories of two dozen witnesses. Including your client. Somehow, I don’t think the Wizengamot will see anything other than what it was.”

            “I doubt the Wizengamot will gather to pass judgment over a child’s disciplinary issue.”

            “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

            “Mr. Brult is hardly a child,” McGonagall says. “As I recall, he’ll be seventeen in two months time.”

            “But he’s not seventeen now. So technically, he is still a child.”

            McGonagall gazes at Dynes, then says, “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? What is it you’re hoping to accomplish here?”

            “Realistically? I’d like the charges to be dropped and for Wulfric to return to school.”

            I bark. Shit. I try to turn it into a cough.

            “Something funny about that, Professor Longbottom?”

            Shaking my head, I answer, “No. Literally nothing about that is funny.”

            “Mr. Dynes,” McGonagall says, with the patience of a saint. “If you wish for Mr. Brult to not be prosecuted, that’s an issue to bring to the Ministry. We have no control over whether they proceed with this, a fact that you are well aware of. And under no circumstances would I allow someone accused of attacking a faculty member to remain in this school.”

            As soon as she says it, we both realize the error. I try not to react, but I feel my ears turning red. McGonagall raises an eyebrow at Dynes, practically daring him to pounce.

            Dynes takes an extra moment to reply, and I wish I could slap the smugness off his face. “So long as that’s a stance you take across the board. I don’t suppose you’ve ever considered an exception?”

            “Mr. Dynes, not to rush you, but I’m still not sure what it is you mean to accomplish today. The goals you’ve claimed to be reaching for are unattainable. So either there’s something else you mean to say, or you’re wasting my time. We do both have a great deal of work to attend to.”

            “I’m surprised to hear you say that discussing a child’s future is a waste of time.”

            “I said no such thing. And I find it alarming that you think a young man with a history of behavioral issues should be taught that his actions should find no consequences.”

            “A few indiscretions here and there—”

            With an eye roll, McGonagall raises her wand. “ _Accio_ file.” A stack of paper a foot high levitates onto her desk. “We take discipline rather seriously at Hogwarts, Mr. Dynes. As you can see, this is more than a few infractions. I think the sheer size of his disciplinary record will show that Mr. Brult was afforded every possible opportunity, and chose to disregard them all.”

            Dynes eyes the pile. “I don’t suppose you could forward a copy to my office.”

            “You may request one from the Ministry,” McGonagall says. “They’ve already taken one into evidence. Now, I understand that Azkaban is a pet cause of yours, Mr. Dynes, but I doubt this is a sword you wish to fall upon.”

            She stands up, dismissing him. Dynes sits another moment, then smiles once more. “Thank you for your time, the both of you. I’ll return with more questions when they arise.”

            “You may put them in a letter. We are both quite busy.” She nods to me.

            Without having to be asked, I walk to the door. I open it, and wait for Dynes to leave.

            He gets slowly to his feet, straightening his robes. “Good day to you both.”

            When he’s about to walk through the door, I say, “My best to your family.” Because I’m not above it.

            Dynes stops and looks up at me. After a moment, he says flatly, “And to yours.”

            He walks out, and I close the door after him.

            McGonagall and I look at one another, waiting until I can hear his footsteps receding. Then I say, “What are they thinking? They’re not even trying.”

            “Perhaps he and Ms. Selwyn are previous acquaintances,” McGonagall says, retaking her seat. “That would not surprise me.”

            “No. It’s the MA.”

            “Longbottom—there’s enough going on. Now is not the time for paranoia. The MA would have never sent a Dynes to advocate for a Brult. It would be a public relations nightmare.”

            “It was a dig at me.”

            “You did just hear my use of the word ‘paranoia’, did you not, Longbottom?” I shake my head, and McGonagall continues, “The MA are not behind this. They’re too clever for that.”

            “Or there’s some reason—”

            Shutting her eyes, McGonagall says in exasperation, “ _Neville_. Enough. No one would half a brain would send a Dynes here to confront you. This was not orchestrated.”

            “It would be if they wanted to get under my skin.” She sighs, and I insist, “I’m not going to put anything past them.”

            McGonagall says, “If you can’t have an unbiased discussion about this—”

            “Unbiased? They’re going to have me in front of the Wizengamot saying _I’m_ the violent one.”

            “Would they be incorrect?”

            “I was protecting a student.”

            “The student had already been removed.”

            “If you had been there, you would have spelled his teeth out.” I put my hands to my face. “Headmistress—I don’t want to argue.”

            “No. Nor I. We just…we need to be careful. It would be dangerous to assume anything.”

            “Yes. Agreed.”

            We say nothing for a moment. It’s like we don’t even know what to say to each other. So I excuse myself, and I go back to lunch.

 

I sit in a hammock of branches, checking through papers. The day has been another long one, and I still have essays to mark.

            This is where I come to mark my papers. I have my office, and a desk in my room, but this is where I’m comfortable. Down in my arboretum. The only sounds are the creaking of wood and the occasional coos of slightly sentient plants. I can swing in my hammock and be peaceful. I can focus.

            Hypothetically.

            My brain is not in good enough shape to be thorough. So I’m checking for egregious spelling errors and that’s about it. With that as my criteria, everyone is getting a passing mark. Save Harry C. That child couldn’t spell venomous tentacula to save his life. I told the whole classroom, “One thing you need to know is venomous tentacula. If I’m going to have this scar the rest of my days, the least you can do is read up on it.”

            My scar is out right now. I’m in a sleeveless shirt, so a lot of my scars are on display, faux sunshine outlining the ridges and bumps. The purple one is the most prominent of them all, though. Twisting around my arm, a reminder to never get too complacent.

            Turning my arm over, I murmur, “Constant vigilance.”

            Paranoid. Part of me is offended. Part of me is aware that it’s a possibility. I’m not sure anyone could blame me. It’s starting to feel like the old days. And in the old days, everyone who said early on that danger was coming were regarded as paranoiacs. I just wish I could figure out how to get in front of things without looking like a crazy person.

            McGonagall is right. The MA would have never sent Dynes. He was a Death Eater who did five years in Azkaban. That’s bad enough. But his brother and his wife—they hid the Lestranges after they tortured my mother and father.

            Sending him to face me. The MA is more subtle. They wouldn’t taunt me. Would they? Is it all just another move in an elaborate long game? McGonagall must be aware of that. She might be telling me not to be paranoid, but she might be trying to convince herself as well.

            I have to get through these papers. I can’t obsess over the outside world when there’s actual work in front of me. Maybe I can’t protect my kids from everything that will come, but I can teach them. Not only about Herbology, but how to behave. How to have a work ethic. How to treat others fairly.

            I buckle down, and somehow I get through all my second years’ papers. Thank heavens. I shrink them down, sticking them in my pocket, then I get up to have a stroll.

            This is my favourite place in all the world. It’s a place I’ve made, that I’ve cultivated. I raise my wand, turning down the sky. The stars come out, and the light dissipates. The ground begins to glow with bioluminescence, guiding my way.

            This place was a gift from Algie. He gave it to me for Christmas the year before he died. He patted my hand and said loudly, “A place for all your treasures.” He was deaf as a stone by then. It was Algie who always gave me the best gifts. Gran gave me sensible things, but Algie gave me things that I loved. He nurtured me the way he would a plant.

            The metaphor holds, because he performed insane experiments on his plants, much like he did on me.

            “The world is grand, Neville,” he told me once. We stood at the top of a hill, muddy, hands scratched from collecting specimens. Algie stood with his hands on his hips, beaming. And I saw what he saw. The world _is_ grand. You only need the patience to see it.

            Algie taught me that life could be fun. It didn’t need to be sad stories and responsibility and sacrifice and nothing else. Those were important things, but not the only things. Life could be grass stains on your trousers and beaches and running down the lane because you’d heard the crocuses were blooming.

            I miss Algie.

            There’s a tapping overhead. It has quite the echo to it, which means things must be loud outside the arboretum. Too erratic to be someone knocking at my door.

            I head across the grounds, past the stored specimens and up the stairs. Once I’m climbing them, I can figure out what the sound is. There’s an owl rapping repeatedly at the window.

            Yes. Once I pop my head up, I find an absolutely massive grey owl trying to get in through my window. It can spread its wings wider than I could my arms. It is very determined about getting in, and at that size, I’m worried it might break the glass.

            “All right!” I say, scrambling out of the suitcase. “Stand back—fly back, please!”

            The owl does no such thing. With a cringe, I fling the window open.

            The owl scratches at the stone, shoving itself through the opening. It throws itself at my bed, resting at the foot of it. The bird extends its wings fully once more, then folds them in, looking around imperiously.

            “Yes, very impressive. Do you have a message for me?”

            The owl turns its head away from me while sticking a foot out. Like it’s my honour to be touching it.

            “Too kind,” I mutter, and untie the small scroll from its leg. I step back, lifting my wand. “ _Lumos_.”

            On the paper are three words, written in small block letters. ‘STAY OR GO?’

            I let out a long sigh. That’s straight forward, isn’t it. Of course Baltasar would be. I’m the one with the issue. He’s made himself clear by coming up here.

            It takes a few seconds to realize the owl’s not going anywhere. “Did he tell you not to leave until I gave a reply?” The owl swivels its head further away from me.

            I’m making a lot of something out of nothing. Baltasar’s not asking me to marry him. He’s not going to stay here forever. What he does, how he is, he never stays in one place. We just enjoy each other, so he’s looking for a little more time. What’s so wrong with that?

            What’s wrong with it is that I can’t have a relationship. I bloody ended things with the love of my life because I chose career over family. I’ll feel like shit if a year later I take up with someone else.      

            No. I’m making things too complicated. Baltasar’s not asking me for the things Ginny asked for. He doesn’t want me to leave here. He _came_ here. He’s willing to meet me halfway. He is not asking me for a long term commitment. Eventually, he’ll grow bored of me.

            I am being so pessimistic. The last few weeks have been stressful, and I’ve let that become my whole life. The best I’ve felt since summer was last night with him.

            What is so terrible about finding a sliver of happiness? Otherwise, what’s the point?

            I go to find a pen. Once I do, I circle ‘STAY,’ and I attach it to the owl’s leg before I can change my mind. “Off you go,” I say, and stand back as the owl tries to hit me with its wing before taking off. The owl lunges out through the window, and I watch it. I watch it take my hopes southward.

            Maybe I don’t know what I’m doing, but I know that I want to be happy. I refuse to fear possibility.


	19. Chapter 19

We don’t make a big deal out of things. We don’t really say anything about it at all.

            When I showed up on Baltasar’s doorstep the night after the owl, he said, “I’m tired. You can come read with me.” So I did. He passed me a book and dropped his head on my thigh and I stroked his hair while reading some Muggle murder mystery that didn’t make a lick of sense.

            In the morning, I woke before him, and I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye again. I jostled Baltasar and he slapped my hand away. “What?”

            “I’m going.”

            “Then go. You wake up at an obscene hour.” Rolling my eyes, I made to leave, but Baltasar yawned, “I’m going to Aberdeen for a few days. When I get back on Wednesday, you should take me hiking around here.”

            “Has anyone ever told you that you’re bossy?”

            He pinched my hip and said, “Mm, yeah.”

            Off he went for a few days, and I taught my classes, and when Baltasar returned, we walking out in the hills, skirting the Forbidden Forest. I’ve no fear of it, not really, but Baltasar took one look at it and said, “Hell no.” We walked for kilometers, talking the whole time and saying nothing of importance, and then he blew me underneath a hollow yew tree.

            I have resolved not to worry about what others might think. Or rather, that’s the goal. Baltasar and I go for walks or stay in his room or pop over to the nearest Muggle towns to get drinks. We flaunt nothing. When we’re out in public, we don’t touch one another, we don’t act like a couple. We are not a couple. We’re just two people who enjoy one another. I’m a professor at Hogwarts, and it’s not smart to be carrying on with a man who’s technically homeless, so I don’t say anything about it to anyone, and if people asks, I say that I’m out collecting specimens.

            Baltasar makes me laugh. He makes me blush, makes me relax, makes me infuriated. Seeing him takes me away from the responsibilities of Hogwarts. I can be myself around him instead of always trying to set an example. And when something at school or in my life really bothers me, or really excites me, I can talk to him about it without any preconceived notions from his side. He listens to me with intense focus, then tells me what he thinks, and sometimes he cheers me up, and sometimes he just takes the piss.

            I’m glad Baltasar stayed. I’m not sure for how long he means to, because I haven’t asked. I don’t mean to. I want to enjoy this for however long it lasts.

 

I walk up to The Boar’s Head on a Saturday afternoon. I have no one for detention, which is still a welcome change. It started snowing last week, but it’s not bad yet. Just a light dusting on the ground.

            Baltasar’s been gone since Tuesday. I’m not even sure where he went. That terror owl showed up at my window with a note that said, ‘Back this weekend.’ Now that Baltasar knows the owl and I can’t stand one another, he’s sure to request it every time he needs to use the Owlery. The thing’s taken to pecking and chasing me around the room until I’ve written a reply. I’m not sure that isn’t Baltasar’s doing as well, though he proclaims innocence.

            Drawing my wand, I point it at a third floor window. “ _Obfensio_.” I hear the window being pounded on. Whoops. I’ve never had the lightest touch with that spell.

            After a few seconds, the window pane is shoved upwards. Baltasar leans out in shirt sleeves, a toothbrush in his mouth. Removing it, he demands, “What?”

            I gesture over my shoulder. “I was thinking of looking for winter rose. They might be coming up now that we’ve had snow. Want to join?”

            Baltasar looks dubiously out at the world, then says, “Yeah, what the hell. Give me fifteen minutes. Go inside. It’s fucking cold.”

            “Aren’t you Canadians used to cold?”

            “This is wet cold. There’s a difference.”

            He shuts the window, and I am left with a dilemma. I haven’t gone into The Boar’s Head to be alone with Aberforth in a few weeks. Not since Baltasar arrived. So far as I know, there haven’t really been rumours yet, but…but Aberforth will have opinions. Aberforth always has opinions.

            Bugger it. I can’t avoid him forever. I head inside.

            It’s only marginally warmer indoors. There’s two customers, and one of them might just be a pile of rags. Aberforth stands behind the counter, rubbing a grimy glass with a less than pristine dish towel.

            I rest my elbows on the bar and feign confidence. “Afternoon, Aberforth.”

            He arches a brow at me. “Found the courage to look me in the eyes, did you?”

            “No idea what you’re talking about.”

            Aberforth tilts his head forward, looking at me from beneath the ridge of his formidable brows. I gaze back, praying that my ears don’t turn red. “What do you think you’re doing, Longbottom?”

            “What do _you_ think I’m doing?”

            “Making a ruddy peculiar mistake.”

            “I’m allowed to make friends.”

            “Friends,” he coughs.

            “Friends,” I insist. “And if anyone has an opinion otherwise, they can keep it to themselves.”

            “Oh aye. Witches and wizards always keep their opinions to themselves, don’t they.”

            I raise my shoulders. “Is he causing you any trouble?”

            “He’ll cause you plenty if you keep carrying on like this.”

            “Is he a terrible guest? Not paying his fee? Making a mess?”

            “The mess is yet to arrive.”

            “You know what I’ve always liked about you? Your cheerful, optimistic nature.” I hear footsteps bounding quickly down the stairs, and push away from the bar. “There’s my friend.”

            Baltasar clatters down the last of the uneven stairs, straightening the collar of his denim jacket. At least he’s wearing a thick jumper beneath it, and some mittens. His hair is held back from his face by two thin braids that meet behind his head. Nimue, he looks good.

            “Neville,” Baltasar says to me. “Goatfucker,” he says to Aberforth.

            “Red headed sodomite,” Aberforth replies with no malice.

            “Put that on my tombstone.”

            “I’ve told you before, stop cleaning the hallways. It upsets the other guests.”

            Baltasar scowls, glaring up at Aberforth. “And I told you, that _whatever_ across the hall has pissed on the floor so many times that it’s getting sticky. You do something about him, or the next time I see him, I’ll hit him with a _Scourgify_ that’ll strip six layers off him.”

            “You’d be liable to kill him.”

            “Well, we all have to make sacrifices.” Baltasar nods towards the door. “Ready to look for—winter weed? What is it?”

            “Winter rose,” I reply, amused by the whole thing. Not many people have it in them to stand up to Aberforth. He’s too old and surly. “We’ll apparate over to—”

            “No you won’t,” Aberforth says.

            We both look at him. “What do you mean?” I ask.         

            “Cheshire’s Point is a no apparition zone. That company from London is out there doing tests. Building better wards or whatever nonsense they’re telling themselves.”

            I blow out a breath. “Shit.”

            “You can’t find this thing anywhere else?” Baltasar asks.

            I hem and haw. “The ones at Cheshire bloom this particular shade of blue. The only kind in the whole world that turn that colour.”

            “So what do you want to do about it?”

            Aberforth starts chuckling, walking away. Wincing, I say, “We could fly.”

            Baltasar looks about as dismayed as I feel. He seems about to argue for a moment before shuffling his feet. “You _really_ need to see _these_ flowers?” he asks.

            I debate the question, then say, “I really want to?”

            “Fuck,” Baltasar mutters. “Fine.”

            “We don’t have to.”

            “No, let’s do it. Let’s…fly.”

 

In the rental store, I’m hopeless. I don’t know about the models or the features or any of that. The witch in charge gets hold of me and just starts talking as if I understand a word out of her mouth, and all I can do is nod and let out noncommittal noises.

            I end up with a Slipstream 4000, which I’m assured is very good, but I can’t discern any difference between it and the others. It’s made of mahogany? I can tell that and not much else.

            Baltasar doesn’t mince words. Once I’m set, he points to a short, sturdy broom with big foot pedals and a stabilizer built in. “This one.”

            “Sir, this one’s meant for children.”

            He gazes at her, then says, “And?”

            We leave the store with our respective brooms, my Slipstream and his Little Wizard’s brand Arrow 4. Yes, there’s a part of me that wants to give him quite the hassle about that, but he’s starting to look quite queasy.

            We walk out to the edge of town without having to say anything about it. I have a habit of being thrown off unfamiliar brooms. And, well, my broom that rarely sees the light of day. I don’t need half of Hogsmeade laughing their arses off because I couldn’t handle a broom.

            When we’re past the last house, I say, “No time like the present, I suppose.”

            Sighing, Baltasar says, “I thought we were supposed to have fun.”

            “We can honestly do something else—”

            “Stop it. Let’s do this.” He tosses the broom on the ground and glares at it. “ _Up_.” It pops right back into his hand without issue.

            “Why do that if you’re only going to pick it up again?”

            “I’m establishing dominance,” Baltasar says, straddling the broom. “Are you coming?”

            I swing a leg over my broom and apologize, “I don’t go very fast.”

            “Good,” he says, and kicks off.

 

It really is a beautiful day. The snow barely covers the rocks and grass. We’re not high enough to take in things on a macro level. I don’t think Baltasar’s Arrow will allow him to go above twenty feet. It’s not bad, really. I’m not one for just having a fly for the hell of it. The only time I’m on a broom is when I need to get somewhere quickly that I can’t apparate too, which is rare. Just ambling along like this is fine.

            Baltasar doesn’t say much. He always has both hands on his broom, staring straight ahead. I’ve never seen him on a broom before, so I had no idea he disliked it this much. I wouldn’t have anticipated that.

            We make decent time up through the mountains. It gets colder the higher we go, and I dare to take a hand off my broom to hit each of us with a warming spell.

            After forty-five minutes, I say, “Just a few more minutes.”

            “Good. Because I have to pee, and I’m not doing it hanging off a broom.”

            “I’d like to see you try.”

            “I’d like to see _you_ try,” Baltasar mutters.

            When we come over the crest of Cheshire’s Point, it’s everything I could have hoped. The valley has turned a dusky shade of blue. It’s extraordinary. The roses gather in little groups here and there, but there are no truly bare spots. I half want to go up high enough to take in the whole thing at once. At the same time, I know I would get dizzy and fall off my broom.

            We come down just outside the largest gathering of roses. They’re not fully bloomed yet. In about a week, this place will be even more beautiful. If I can convince Baltasar to return here with me is another question.

            I unstrap my arboretum from my back, setting it on the ground, and go to the first rose I see. I slice through the stem with my wand, hitting it with a stasis spell, then I take it to Baltasar. Offering it to him, I say, “For my brave apprentice.”

            He looks at it a moment, then takes it with a small smile. Baltasar steps forward, wrapping his arms around me, and lays his head on my shoulder.

            Rubbing a hand over his back, I kiss the top of his head. “I didn’t know you hated flying so much. I wouldn’t have taken you if I’d known.”

            “It’s fine. I know better than to get in the way of your flora boner.” I snort, and he pulls back enough to look at me. “Flora, right? Not fauna?”

            “See? You’re learning.”

            Baltasar stands taller to kiss the side of my mouth, then steps away. He closes the rose between his hands, and when he opens his hands again it’s gone. Baltasar reaches up, running his hands over his hair. It streaks blue. I watch, fascinated, as he bends over so his hair hangs free. He threads his fingers through his hair, messing it up, until the bottom half of his hair is mostly the same shade as the Cheshire Point winter rose.

            When he stands back up, I ask, “Is that how you do it?”

            Baltasar gives me a peculiar look and says, “I don’t know what you mean. This is my natural colour.”

 

I natter about winter rose, and Baltasar has the manners to pretend interest. Eventually, when I ask him to summarize what I just said to him, he blanches and asks, “Can I abstain?”

            “The only time I went out with my grandfather, I came here,” I say, measuring thorns and writing the numbers in my notebook. “The only time I ever remember him leaving the house, actually.”

            “Wasn’t he sick a lot?”

            “He was. You know, I don’t even know what he was sick with. I just know that he was dying the whole time I knew him. Gran would go into all the gory details of what happened to Mum and Dad, but when it came to Grandad? Nothing. I mean, she’d tell everyone the ugly details about how he was deteriorating, but I’ven’t the slightest idea what it all was from.”

            “Do you have any good memories with him?”

            “Coming here was about the only one. I was—I don’t know. Five? Maybe six? He and Algie and I went out. Algie took me on adventures whenever he could. The truth is, Gran was out at tea, and he apparated the both of us here. When we got back, she was _furious_. ‘Cheshire’s Point? What were you thinking, you could have killed him!’ And on and on and on. She never left Grandad alone again if Algie was the only other adult around.”

            “Did he like coming up here? Your grandfather?”

            “You know, I’ve no idea. I can’t remember that bit. I just remember how mad Gran was after. Algie, he’d tell stories about Grandad and they just made absolutely no sense. You know, if I compared things to the man who actually lived in my house. Algie would tell stories about him playing pranks, and the two of them mountain climbing and running about. Then there’s this old man who can barely speak, wheezing all the time and trying to cough out his lungs.”

            I glance over at Baltasar. He’s sitting on a blanket, arms draped over his knees. He looks so handsome that it’s painful.

            “Do you have any good stories about your grandmother?” Baltasar asks.

            I think about it, then say, “She was good at killing Death Eaters.”

            After a beat, Baltasar says, “Ringing endorsement.”

            “Oh, it’s fine. She’s just…a difficult personality. She’s had more than her share of hard knocks. That’s the long and short of it. I only knew her after all the bad things had happened. Were still happening, really. I wish she was different, but…wish in one hand and spit in the other, you know.”

            Baltasar shifts around on the blanket, and says, “Do you want to know why I don’t like flying? Since we’re telling shitty grandparent stories?”

            “I’m not saying they were—” I stop. “I mean, I’d like to hear the story.”

            He scratches at his nose, and says, “I was eight. I’d never been on a broom before. I didn’t have a toy broom or anything like that. I didn’t really have toys, period. That’s how I started doing magic tricks. There was a book about it in the house, and that’s how I kept myself amused. But anyways, one day Mormor tells me I’m going to learn how to fly on a broom. She’s got this broom that’s like six feet long, and that’s what she wants me to ride on. I’m not exactly tall now, right, and I was pretty little for my age. I wasn’t one of those kids who really wanted to fly. We lived out in the middle of nowhere. Fields for fucking days. Not like there was anywhere to go. But I was like, okay, great, I’m gonna learn to fly. So we get out there, and we go through the usual thing. Broom on the ground, I say, ‘Up,’ and I get it on the second try.”

            “Aren’t you special.”

            “Fuck off. Don’t mock me when I’m trying to tell you about my tragic backstory. I get on the thing, and she tells me to take off on it. Go up to ten feet, then stay there. And I couldn’t get it. I’d get a couple inches off the ground, and then I’d start wobbling, and I’d come down again. Eventually, I really fell. Not from high up or anything, I was like two feet off the ground, but I pitched over and landed on my arm in a weird way, and it hurt. I started to cry, and that was my big mistake. You didn’t cry in that house. A lot of shit was fine, things you could never get away with in another family, but in my family, tears were not acceptable. So she just turned and walked away and left me out there. Lesson over for the day. Wouldn’t say a single word to me for the rest of the night.

            “Next day, I get up and she’s not in the house. So I go out there, and she’s waiting for me and tells me I’m late. And I know I’m in trouble. I was expected to get things right on the first try. That whole thing about practice makes perfect? If you’re a Byquist, you get it right the first fucking time. Practice means you’re weak and couldn’t get it right the first time. Not only did I not get it immediately, I cried. I broke two of the rules. I knew she was going to get me back for it somehow, but I didn’t know how. She tells me again, get on the broom, and go up ten feet, and stay there. I get on the broom, I get off the ground, and then I start to wobble and come back down. And my grandmother hits me with a _Spiculius_.”

            “I don’t know that one.”

            “It’s a pretty sharp electric shock. We used it a lot on the livestock if they didn’t feel like moving.” Baltasar holds up a hand. “Spare me your pity, right off. My childhood sucked, but if you tell me I was abused and that you feel sorry for me, you can suck your own dick tonight. Okay?”

            I really, _really_ want to be indignant. I want to tell him what a terrible thing was done to him. I want him to know I’m on his side. Only I think he’ll get up and walk away if I do that. “Okay.”

            “Okay. So of course, I fall off the broom because she just shocked the shit out of me. When I could sit up, she told me to try again. It’s not the first time she did that when she was teaching me something, so I wasn’t too surprised. Except every other time, I was able to get it right off if she shocked me. This time, though—I couldn’t get it. I’d get a little bit off the ground, and the broom would start to shake, and the second I started to go down, I’d get another _Spiculius_ and I’d fall. We did that for—hours, I think? Maybe it was less. It was nearly thirty years ago, so maybe I just remember it being hours.”

            “Baltasar, what the—”

            “Fuck your pity, I’m telling you a story. Or do you want me to stop?”

            “I want you to tell me if you want to tell me.”

            “I want to tell you. I didn’t get it that day. Eventually, I was shaking so badly that I couldn’t stand, and Mormor said we’d try again tomorrow. So we did. I kind of remember the fourth day being the worst. She’d zapped me so many times over the past few days that I couldn’t even get the broom up into my hand. I tried for so long to get the broom in my hand, and she was standing right in front of me, that fucking rake wand pointed right at me. She didn’t shock me, and that was probably the worst. She wasn’t threatening me, she just had it pointed right at me, and knowing that it could happen at any second? Anticipating it? That was terrifying. That was the worst. Eventually, after a few more days, I managed to get up to ten feet. Then the trick was staying up there. She made me stay up there for hours. The whole time pointing the wand at me. We’d go around in a circle, real slow, and every time I lost my focus, I’d feel that little shake in the broom. It went on for weeks. I kept getting higher and higher, and I’d have to stay up there longer and longer. And I knew, the higher I got, if I fell, the worse I’d be hurt. I didn’t have any illusions that she’d catch me. The harder it hurts, the better you’ll learn. That’s what Mormor would tell me.”

            “So she’s not the one who had the line about mistakes, then.”

            Baltasar snorts. “No. Hell no.”

            “What happened in the end?”

            “Exactly what you’d expect. I got up about forty feet off the ground, and she wouldn’t let me come down. That was normal enough. This time, though, she got on a broom too, so that I couldn’t just fly off and try to land somewhere else. I was up on that broom for I don’t know how long. It was pretty early in the day when we started, and getting dark near the end. I spent most of the last half asking her to let me go down. Most days, after a certain point, she’d let me go back down. That day, she wouldn’t. I don’t know if she was just in a bad mood or something. I started to lose my concentration, and the broom started shaking. I told her that, too. I told her, I’m going to fall. She said, no, not if you don’t want to hurt yourself. And I was already a pretty decent wizard for an eight-year-old, but there’s only so much the body can take. So the broom’s shaking, and I’m begging her, please, please let me down. She’s telling me I have to be better than everyone else, blah blah blah, fucking whatever. Finally, I just fell. She let me. Didn’t cushion the fall, didn’t try to stop it. She just let me fall.”

            I wait a moment, then ask, “How bad?”

            Baltasar shrugs, gesturing to various places on his body. “Broke my arm in two places. Fractured my skull. Broke a few ribs. She took care of the skull and the ribs, but she took me to a Muggle doctor for the arm. I had to wear a cast for six weeks.”

            “What the hell,” I finally say.

            “Yeah, she had a real interesting way of teaching certain lessons.”

            “What the hell was the point of that lesson? Terrify you into flying?”

            “I mean, if it was, it backfired. When I got the cast off, the very next thing she tried to do was get me back on a broom. I told her to fuck herself. I literally said ‘fuck you’ to my grandmother. It was something the Muggle kids down on the rez taught me. I told her I was never getting on a broom again.”

            “What did she do?”

            “She tried to put me on the broom. So I _Spiculius’_ ed her with my bare hands.”

            “You never.”

            Baltasar nods. “Truth was, I think she respected that. After she regained consciousness, I guess. She made us a big dinner and never tried to make me fly again. I definitely didn’t get on a broom again until I’d left home for good.”

            I don’t know what to say to that story. If one of my students came to me with that story, I’d report their parents to the Ministry. I don’t like thinking about a tiny boy out in the middle of nowhere, being tormented into doing something that’s a source of joy for a lot of people.

            “My first flying story sounds tame after that,” I say, for want of anything better.

            “Tell me about it.”

            Feeling silly, I say, “My very first flying class. I was the first one off the ground, but I was completely out of control. I fell too. Broke my wrist.”

            “My story’s better.”

            “Hey, I’ll have you know that as a result of that little fiasco, Harry Potter ended up on the Quidditch team. Youngest Seeker in decades at Hogwarts.”

            “I don’t like stories where you’re a background character.”

            Flushing, I say, “Get away with you.”

            Baltasar leans back on his hands. “What’s Harry Potter like?”

            Funny that it’s taken this long to ask me. Usually when people meet me, it’s one of the first topics of conversation. “Harry’s fantastic. Saved the world, didn’t he.” 

            “Yeah, no one else had anything to do with it.”

            “He never made it seem like that. He wasn’t big headed about it.” Baltasar gives me a withering look, and I admit, “Not often, at least. He was a teenage boy with a lot on his shoulders. I wouldn’t have wanted to be him for the world.”

            “You almost were, though.”

            I pause. “Where’d you hear that?”

            “Aberforth talks a lot when he’s drunk and you butter him up by asking about his goats. You could have been the Boy Who Lived. I mean, in a way, you were.”

            “Hush. I didn’t have the things happen to me that Harry did.”

            “You know that just because people underestimate you, it doesn’t mean you have to do it to yourself.”

            “I’m not. I don’t know what I would have done in his shoes. Voldemort chose him. Do I know if it was the right choice or not? No idea. I’m glad he didn’t choose me.”

            “You’re hot when you’re humble.”

            “Piss off.”

            “So what’s he like now? The great Harry Potter?”

            “Good. He’s great. Honestly—I haven’t spoken to him in a few months. We’re all busy. I’ve got school. He’s got his shop and his life in America and all that. He and Ron and Hermione still aren’t speaking, but that’ll blow over. He’s a lot better off than he was.”

            “How do you mean?”

            Hesitating, I explain, “He didn’t do that well after the war. No one should have expected him to, and there’s no shame in it. But he was a kid, even with everything that happened. He tried to just keep up the fight. Joined the Aurors. I did as well. When I came along though, I’d had another year at school. Did a lot of other things. Harry, he was trying his best, but…to be honest, I did better than him coming in than he did after being in a year. That sounds snobbish, but it was…bad. Back then, I did everything I could to defend him. It just got to the point where it wasn’t safe for him to be there. Not for him, not for anyone else. It was a bit of a relief when he moved on.”

            “What’d he do after?”

            “Nothing, really. He found himself a place out in the country and we’d see him at family meals and things, talk him into coming into the city occasionally. That was the most we could get out of him. It was like that for a lot of years, until he took up with Draco.” I laugh, and say, “The best thing Harry could have ever done was run off with Draco Malfoy, and there’s a sentence I thought would never come out of my mouth. Now he’s off in America, and he’s got a wand shop, and a boyfriend, and he’s happy as a clam. No telling how anyone will end up, I suppose.”

            “Did you like being in the Aurors?”

            “I didn’t mind it.”

            “I can’t see you being an Auror.”

            “What do you see me being?”

            “A herbologist, and I don’t know if that’s a compliment.” I throw a little handful of snow at him, and Baltasar bats it away. “I don’t see you running down perps and dueling.”

            “What did you say about people underestimating me?”

            “You liked fighting dark magics?”

            “It really was all right. I just wasn’t passionate about it. After the war and all that, I thought that maybe I should aim higher than being a herbologist. I’d proven things to myself. Surprised myself. Not going to lie, there was some pressure for me to go into the Aurors as well. There was a pretty intense recruitment push, given that so many of them died during the war. People got it in their head that I should do it, certainly my Gran did, and—I suppose I was flattered that people believed I could do something that they used to think wasn’t in my nature. So I joined up with Dean and a few of our friends, and that’s what I did for a few years. There were the exciting bits, and the boring bits, and in the end it wasn’t for me.”

            “So back to the plants, huh.”

            “Yeah. And I tell you, I’d rather be here than sitting in some cobweb covered warehouse for thirty-six hours waiting for someone to sell an illicit shipment of black market potions. What about you? What did you imagine you’d be at this age?”

            “Would it surprise you to hear I never thought that far ahead?”

            “Not in the least.”

            “I grew up with pretty strict expectations that I’d stay on the homestead and make little Byquists. Having someone tell me repeatedly exactly what I was going to do didn’t sit well. I guess I went in the opposite direction with not having plans at all.”

            “See, that terrifies me.”

            “And I keep telling you. It’s not scary. It’s liberating.” Baltasar flops back on the ground. “Tell me about Hogwarts.”

            “What about it?”

            “You’re the one who said it’s an architectural marvel.”

            “You want to know about the building?”

            He nods, eyes closing. “Yeah. Not like I’m getting invited inside any time soon.”

            “It’s not just you. It’s not really the done thing—”

            “Describe it to me, Neville.”

            I think about it. Hogwarts has been my home for so long that I don’t quite know which details are important or not. “The walls are stone.”

            “Wow, you’re really painting me a word picture.”

            Scowling, I say, “They’re stone, but they’re sturdy. Even with how long the castle’s been standing, it’s kept itself together. It sort of—regenerates itself. Part of being a student is blowing things up—even in Herbology, as it turns out—and the castle will put itself back together. After the war, that was the only time I ever saw that it needed more than a few pokes with a wand. If it had been left alone for a year, though, I think it would have put itself back together entirely. My greenhouse is good as new after Lavinia destroyed it. After a week, I took what was left of the xiddig down into my arboretum, and the next day the greenhouse was right as rain. It was even clean for all of five minutes. I’m not really sure what you want to know about.”

            “It’s where you live. And it’s famous. I want to know everything.”

            “Well…there’s paintings all over the place. They’re the ones with the passwords to everywhere. Some of the statues do too, like the one to the Headmistress’ office.”

            Baltasar lifts his head. “Should you be telling me that?”

            “Everyone who’s ever gone to Hogwarts knows that.” He shrugs and drops back down. “The statues won’t talk back to you like the paintings will. There’s this one, a monkey in a fez, and every time it scares the dickens out of me, shieking as I go by. Anyway. I’m absolute shit at remembering passwords. Always have been. I got in the worst trouble when I was young for writing them down. The paintings have a lot of opinions. And there’s ghosts. Each house has its own ghost. We’ve got an extra as well who’s working her way up. Bellatrix Lestrange. She and I have a history. The castle, let’s see. The staircases move. If you’re there long enough, you can figure out the pattern. Remember which step is the one that disappears. I only remember about half the time. I’ve broken my ankle on the sodding things. There used to be a Room of Requirement. That’s about the only place that never returned after the war.”

            “What’s a Room of Requirement?”

            “A room that only appears when you need it. And everything you need is inside. That’s where we all hid during the war. It gave us everything. Even a passage to Hogsmeade to smuggle kids out when it got too bad. I loved the Room. Part of me hopes that someday it will appear again. What about the schools you went to? What were they like?”

            “I liked Piuluqqut. I would have stayed there if I could. Ilvormorny, they were all just a bag of dicks.” Baltasar props up his head so that he can watch me. “What are you going to do with those?”

            “Catalogue them.”

            “Write a book?”

            I shrug. “I don’t know. I just like to know. As much as a I can.”

            He smiles. “You’re so sweet when you nerd out.”

            “Sweet, am I?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Are you falling asleep?”

            “No. But I tell you what. You wrap up with whatever you’re doing there, and I’ll get naked and make you real happy.”

            “How’s that different from every other time?”

            Baltasar smirks. “I’ll make a concerted effort this time.”

            I like the sound of that. I push myself to my feet, walking over to him. I hold down my hands. Baltasar takes them, and I pull him up. He does seem a little sleepy, but it makes him look kind.

            I run my hands over his hair, then cup his face. Bending down, I kiss him gently on the mouth. I feel him let out a content, small sigh. I kiss along his bottom lip, peck at the outside, nuzzle my face against his. I find it easier to feel something for him every day. Sometimes that’s frightening, but right now all I can feel is gratitude. I’m so very grateful for him.

            Baltasar wavers back a few inches. He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulling out what looks like a tiny tent. Tossing it on the ground, he strokes a thumb over the cables of my jumper and asks, “Make that life sized, would you?”

            “I rather thought we’d stay out here.”

            “The world is too cold for my delicate bare ass. C’mon, handsome.”

            Capitulating, I draw my wand and spell the tent. It pops up, large enough to walk inside. Baltasar takes me by the hand, pulling me in. It’s not one of those tents that are larger on the inside. It’s really only meant for one or two people.

            So I suppose that makes it perfect.

            Baltasar slides a hand up to my neck and says, “Come here and make me forget my own name.”

           

“Show me a trick.”

            Baltasar is face down on the ground, arms splayed above his head. He mutters, “I don’t hide the cards up my ass, Neville.”

            I chuckle, softly. We’re spent and quiet. Soon we should be flying back to Hogsmeade, but I feel a bit lazy after everything. “I would have noticed.”

            Baltasar turns his head to squint at me. “You pull out and cards start shooting everywhere.” I laugh harder and he says, “Is this your card? Is _this_ your card?”

            It takes me a bit to get out the giggles. When I have, I say, “Show me a trick you can’t show the Muggles without being arrested. Impress me.”

            “I’m not here to entertain you.”

            “Yeah you are.”

            He thinks about it, then shrugs. Pushing himself up, Baltasar leans back on his hands. His hair is black and red and blue, and there’s blue dye all over my hands and my mouth tastes like winter rose. “I ever tell you that I travelled with a magical circus for awhile?”

            “You didn’t.”

            “All across the Middle East. I learned all kinds of things that would get me arrested for sorcery in the wrong places. My job was really just to work up the crowd before the show started. We can all do wandless magic when we’re young, except we’re trained out of it. They tell us it’s to focus our power, but it’s really just to force us into a standardized method of casting. People get real excited when they see you can do something without your wand. Even if it’s only the little stuff.”

            “I’ve still never seen you use your wand.”

            “You’ve held it. Would you want to use that thing?”

            “Hell no.”

            “Exactly. A trick, huh. What’s your favourite kind of animal?”

            “Um…you know, I’m not really sure.”

            “You’re horny for nature and you don’t have a favourite animal?”

            “I like plants,” I say, exasperated. “I don’t know, let’s say a toad.”

            Baltasar says, “Okay, that’s stupid, so I’ll pick something.”

            He holds his hands up. He takes a deep breath in, then slowly releases it. Between his hands, a light begins to glow orange. It pulses a few times, then erupts into flame. Spreading his hands apart, like he’s stretching something, Baltasar reveals a large cat, made of fire. The flames flicker, and I can see the stripes. A tiger. He’s made a tiger from fire and pure will.

            “Beautiful,” I say.

            His mouth is in a tight line, his eyes narrowed. He holds it for a few seconds, then drops his hands. Puffing out a breath, Baltasar says, “At a distance, that looks effortless.”

            I sit up, wrapping my arms around him. I give his neck a kiss, saying, “You’re so clever.”

            “Mm, yes I am.” He rubs my arm and tilts his head back to look at me. He smiles crookedly, and gives me a kiss. “When are you going to show me a trick?”

            “All my tricks are plant based.”

            “Then I don’t care.” I poke him in the side, and he yelps. Baltasar gives me a wide eyed look, and I realize abruptly that he’s ticklish. I grin devilishly, and he says, “Neville, don’t you dare—”

            I attack him with my fingers, trapping him with my legs. I tickle him while he writhes and shrieks.

            “Neville—Neville don’t—I swear to God, I’ll light you on fire—stop it! Stop!”

            He laughs, and I tickle him, and he singes some of the hair off my chest, which stops things for a moment, but then we laugh together. And I am so incredibly happy.

 

I walk him back to The Boar’s Head, keeping a respectable distance. Just two mates out and about, nothing else. Right now, I feel like I have everything.

            “I’m not doing anything tomorrow,” Baltasar says.

            “I’m going to have a mountain of papers to mark. If you don’t mind me doing them here…”

            Baltasar nods. “I have some books I want to catch up on. I’m good to be quiet.”

            I guess we’re taking that step, then. Not just meeting up for some adventure, a departure from daily life. Now we’re meeting up because we enjoy each other’s company. We can do mundane things together. Making a habit of it. The idea is both terrifying and exhilerating.

            “Today was great,” I say.

            He glances up at me, and smiles. “It was all right.”

            I shove him, and he shoves me back. We stop at the front door of the pub, and I’d like to go in with him. I’d like to sleep in the same bed as him.

            Baltasar says, “I’d slip you some tongue, but I guess I’ll refrain for decorum’s sake.”

            “You’re always so proper.”

            “Did it feel proper when I had my tongue in your ass earlier?”

            “Of course it did. What, did you think you were doing something risque?”

            Baltasar laughs, and says, “Night, handsome. Don’t get eaten by the Giant Squid.”

            I put up a hand, and he turns to the door. “Baltasar,” I say suddenly. He looks back. “I’m really glad you came up here.”

            After a moment, Baltasar says, “Me too.” He gives me one of those small, private smiles, then slips inside. I nod to myself and, happy as a clam, take the walk home.

 

The next morning, I’m at breakfast when I start to hear some giggles scattered throughout the Hall. The chatter rises as well. Right off, I know something’s going on. I look up and, unfortunately, I see multiple students glancing at me, whispering to their classmates behind their hands.

            I’ve gone and done something, but Merlin only knows what.

            “What’s with them?” Aida asks.

            “No clue.” I’m relatively unfazed. Students are always gossiping about something.

            There’s a small throat clearing from my other side. Flitwick is just sitting down. Reluctantly, he says, “Have you not seen the paper this morning?”

            Now I get the familiar drop in my stomach. “I haven’t.”

            He coughs again, then holds out a copy of _The Daily Prophet_. I unfold it and am assaulted by the front page headline.

            There I am with Baltasar in the field, my hands on his face, as I obviously kiss him. Blessedly, his face is obscured by mine, but it is quite clear what I’m doing, and quite clear that he’s a man. The headline says in massive font: PROFESSOR LONGBOTTOM’S ROMANTIC RENDEZVOUS WITH MYSTERY MAN.

            I can’t say anything.

            I mean, I can say one thing, and I do.

            “ _Fuck_ Rita Skeeter.”


	20. Chapter 20

“This is—this is an absolute—”

            I’m tongue tied and sputtering. I didn’t think—for heaven’s sake, we were out in the middle of nowhere! They would have had to trail us the whole time without us seeing. I feel violated. This was a violation.

            This is not the first time I’ve been in the papers due to my love life. My partner for ten years was Britain’s best Seeker. We learned how to avoid reporters as much as we could, but it didn’t always work. And when we broke up—that was front page as well.

            This has nothing to do with anyone. This is private and _mine_ and there is no reason it should be news. It’s not news, it’s _mine_.

            “You sneaky bugger,” Aida says, looking over my shoulder.

            I quickly scan the article. It has no details about Baltasar. It’s not even all that interested in him. The gist of it is the scandal. Hogwarts professor dumps Britain’s sweetheart and takes up with a strange man.

            I’m about five seconds from blowing a blood vessel. So I calmly fold the paper in two and pass it back to Flitwick. “Thank you, Professor.”

            He nods, embarrassed. “Certainly, Professor.”

            Biting into my lower lip, I stab at my eggs. I can feel Aida nearly bursting with questions. The second she opens her mouth, I say, “I don’t want to talk about it.” She deflates, grumbling as she picks up her coffee.

            They’re all talking about me. They’re talking about him.

            I am so angry.

            A shadow appears over my head. I look up as the gigantic grey owl circles above the table, then plunks down on the table with a thud. Flitwick squeaks as his egg cup topples. The owl, imperious as always, sticks a leg out towards me, its head turned away.

            I’ve got a sick feeling in my stomach. Baltasar’s not looking for any of this. For all I know, this note is him telling me he’s gone. That I’m more trouble than I’m worth. I hesitate before reaching out, removing the scroll from its leg.

            As soon as I do, the grey owl flaps its massive wings. It throws Aida’s coffee cup into her lap, and she jumps up, yelping. “Bloody bird!” The owl leaves without waiting for my reply.

            The murmurs from the students stopped for a moment, but they pick up again, even louder than before. Aida’s trying to clean coffee off her robes, and Flitwick’s trying to get egg yolk off his. Me, I’ve just gone pale.

            I don’t want him to go. I don’t want him to go.

            I get up and leave the Great Hall. I have to read whatever Baltasar’s written me, and I’m not going to do it in front of a crowd.

            I get about twenty steps into the hallway before I can’t take another second. Unrolling the little piece of parchment, I brace myself for a curt farewell.

            ‘Do not come over here today. Aberforth already threw out some weird blonde bitch named Mosquito (?) and he’s upset over how many customers he has. I don’t feel like dealing with this right now so I’ll be back on Thursday. You owe me the dicking down of a lifetime for this shit. See you then.’         

            I laugh in disbelief. Oh, bloody hell. I was nervous. I mean, really nervous. The thought of just losing him, of not getting the chance to see Baltasar again—I didn’t realize it would cut so sharply. My relief is a buoyant thing.

            Dropping back against the wall, I let my eyes shut. My heart has been beating quickly, which I didn’t even notice until it began to slow. I clutch the parchment in my hand, breathing in and out through my nose.

            All right. So people know. Fuck it. He didn’t take off.

            And that’s what matters. I’m surprised to discover that. His staying—it matters to me.

            “Professor Longbottom.”

            I straighten, clearing my throat. “Headmistress.”

            McGonagall looks like she’s bitten into a lemon. She holding a copy of _The Daily Prophet_ in her hand. Well, here we go. She says slowly, “I asked you what your relationship to this gentleman was.”

            I’m immediately flustered. Slipping the parchment into my pocket, I say, “I told you, Headmistress. He’s a friend I made this summer.”

            “Yes, this looks _remarkably_ friendly, Longbottom. Who is he?”

            “He’s…he’s just a…”

            “A _what_ , Longbottom.”

            I don’t know what to do here. I’ve never had to do this with McGonagall before. It never occurred to me that I would have to. “It’s private. It’s no one’s concern.”

            She holds up the paper. “Does this look private?”

            Flushing, I say, “It _is_ private. We were all the way up Cheshire’s Point. Skeeter stalked us up there. She had no right.”

            “Rita Skeeter has never cared about anyone’s rights. Nor will the parents care about your privacy, Longbottom.”

            “It’s none of their concern either.”

            “Do you honestly think that will be their opinion of the matter?” To my surprise, McGonagall slaps the newspaper against my chest. “This nonsense is on the front page, Longbottom. It’s detracting from the real matter at hand.” I wait a moment, and she actually rolls her eyes in irritation. “Page two, Longbottom.”

            I open the paper. On the third page is another large headline regarding me. At a glance, it looks like they’re retreading my relationship and breakup with Ginny, as if the paper hadn’t rammed the details into people’s heads enough times. Below that, though, is another smaller article. About Wulfric’s expulsion. I am not quoted, but Dynes is at length.

            ‘Professor Longbottom is allowing past grievances to colour a simple misunderstanding,’ Dynes says. ‘This grudge holding could result in a child being sent to Azkaban, of all places.’

            “I’ll wring Dynes’ neck,” I mutter.

            “Page— _two_ ,” McGonagall repeats through gritted teeth.

            I look at page two. It takes me a second to spot it, below an article about another memorial park being dedicated. It’s barely more than a few lines.          

            ‘Petition to Reintroduce Sorting Makes Wizengamot.’

            I stare at McGonagall in horror. “What is this?”

            “They have enough signatures to bring it before the Wizengamot,” McGonagall says grimly.

            “That’s not possible. A petition needs two thousand signatures before it can—” I stop. After a moment, I whisper, “They don’t have two thousand signatures. Tell me they don’t.”

            “They do.”

            I stand here with my mouth hanging open. I look back at the paper. I don’t know what to say.

            “How?” I finally ask.

            “Just because they work quietly does not mean they’re not working constantly.”

            “This should be on the front page! They’ve written all of five sentences about it, so why the hell am I—” It hits me. I close my eyes a moment. “The MA controls _The Daily Prophet_ ,” I say with a sinking stomach.

            “It would appear so. I was incorrect about being too quickly suspicious. They’re moving.”

            “No. Oh no.”

            “Lloyd Lewis is apparently retiring as editor.”

            “Do not tell me Leroq is going to be in charge.”

            “No. They’re not that foolish. The names I’ve heard suggested are all quite neutral. But no one on our side is being considered as editor in chief.” McGonagall takes the paper back from me. “My assumption, Longbottom, is that they’ll pick someone with zero strength of character, and then strong arm them from behind the scenes. It seems that’s already happening.”

            “I’ll get in contact with Xenophilius Lovegood. _The Quibbler_ will print the truth—”

            “You will do nothing.”

            “Beg pardon?”

            McGonagall presses her lips together. “Longbottom,” she says, “you are putting us in a very difficult position at the worst time imaginable.”

            “I what?”

            “Between the Brult boy and Herman—and now this situation.” She gives the paper a single shake. “You are making questionable choices that will affect the entire school. I cannot have you giving these people more leverage.”

            “What does that mean?”

            McGonagall takes a few seconds. Carefully, she says, “Now might not be the time for such entanglements.”

            It takes me a moment to realize what she means. “I am not going to let the MA dictate my personal life—”

            “It reflects on Hogwarts—”

            “It does no such thing—”

            “Where is this man from? Who is he? What about him can be used against us? You can be certain that the MA will find something. Can he be trusted?”

            Flabbergasted, I have no idea how I can tell the legendary Minerva McGonagall that she’s being paranoid. “It’s no one’s business—”

            “It is when it reflects on this school. How well do you really know this man? You say that this was out on Cheshire’s Point. How could they have known to find you there? Has it not occurred to you that he tipped them off, as it were?”

            “He wouldn’t do that—”

            “Are you certain? Are you so certain that you’re willing to give the MA ammunition to use against you?”

            I hold up my hands. “Headmistress—I understand that you are very concerned about the Magical Alliance. I am as well. But my personal relationships have nothing to do with that.”

            “You are putting those personal relationships before the wellbeing of this school—”

            “I’m doing no such thing! I don’t see why you’re upset with me, it was _my_ privacy that was violated. This is not my fault.”

            “It doesn’t matter how we got here, it matters how we proceed. You have to be above reproach. They will twist things. You cannot allow them to do that—”

            “Would we be having this discussion if he weren’t a man?”

            McGonagall snaps, “Don’t be so naïve.”

            I stare at her.

            McGonagall takes a deep breath. “I am sorry, but it doesn’t matter how I may personally feel about it, or how you view the situation. The school’s reputation must come first. There is no disputing that. A Hogwarts professor must have an unassailable reputation.”

            “No.”

            “Beg pardon?”

            I start shaking my head. “I’m not discussing this with you.”

            “Longbottom—”

            “It’s none of your business.” I’m horrified that I’ve said this to her. I’ve never told McGonagall no. I’ve always done what she asked of me. I’m a bit giddy at doing something so terrible. “I’m not talking to you about him, and I’m not playing the MA’s game. I can’t—no.”

            I back up from her, and McGonagall says, “Longbottom—”

            “I can’t—no, I can’t have this conversation with you. So I’m going. I’m going, goodbye.”

            I turn and walk abruptly away from her. McGonagall calls my name in disbelief, and I quicken my pace. No, I flee Minerva McGonagall like my life depends on it, terrified and exhilarated.

 

It used to be that when my sixth years came in, I’d be filled with dread. Now, when they enter the greenhouse, I’m relieved. Just having Wulfric gone is enough to make me happy.

            Some of them give me curious looks, but I’m not worried about any of them saying anything. They’re all good kids, and they wouldn’t want to embarrass me.

            Olive walks in. I perk up. I heard they were coming back this morning, but it must have been when I was already in class. They take their place at a free station, then give me a little nod. With a smile, I say quietly, “I’m glad to see you.” They nod again, then begin unpacking their things.

            Evangeline enters the greenhouse as well, looking tired and unhappy. I notice now that Olive has chosen a station already occupied on either side. Evangeline pauses, then slinks over to a free one, sneaking surreptitious looks at Olive. I’m not the most perceptive man, but teenagers are rarely subtle with their dramatics.

            Once everyone is in, I say, “All right, let’s jump right in, shall we? Gloves on, we’re going to have a pop quiz.” There’s a low groan, and I raise a brow. “Whingers will get five minutes less. Today we’re going to be collecting sap from shriek brush. You will have—thirty minutes to obtain 50 ml of sap. You will have an available thirty points. You will be graded on obtaining the requisite amount, accuracy, and time. Points will be subtracted for screams, up to ten points. Everyone clear?”

            There’s a mumble.

            “Excellent.” I raise my wand, lifting the shrouds off all the brushes with the flick of my wrist. “Everyone collect a brush. We’ll begin in a minute’s time.”

            To be honest, I’d rather not be doing this quiz. I want to be teaching, keeping myself distracted. But they’re overdue, and I can’t let whatever’s going on with me affect classes. I’ll do the marking I’d planned to do at The Boar’s Head.

            The students mostly have their brushes when there’s a tapping at the window. I lean back, inhaling. There’s a bedraggled owl at the window with a red envelope in its talons. I know that owl.

            “Sorry, everyone, just a moment.” No avoiding it. The evil old thing will put itself through the window if I don’t open it, and then I’ll get a mountain of Howlers. I unlatch the window, and Gran’s owl Agramon comes bouncing inside.

            It circles the desk once, tossing the envelope at a vase. It fails to knock it over because the owl’s about a million years old and its heart may give out on the way back to England. I stand aside to let it out the window, only it dive bombs me, trying to get at my face. With a yelp, I lean away, batting at it. I accidentally spike it out the window. It lets out an indignant shriek, then wobbles off.

            That leaves me with the Howler. It’s shaking on the desk, steam beginning to sputter from the corners. I roll my eyes.

            “The sooner you open it the better, Professor,” Lucien says, uncharacteristically queasy. “I had one from my dad when I failed my Potions’ test. I didn’t open it and it went off for a half hour.”

            Withdrawing my wand, I say, “Everyone. This may be one of the most important lessons you learn at Hogwarts. How to properly deal with a Howler.” I point my wand at the Howler. “ _Bombarda_!”

            The Howler explodes, and everyone jumps. For a moment, I can hear my grandmother wail, but it disappears in about a second. I use my wand to lift the ashes off my desk and into the bin.

            Turning back to the class, I tell them, “Howlers are meant to humiliate you. There are many dreadful things you can do to a person, but to humiliate them, to shame them, is one of the worst. You have my explicit permission to use _Bombarda_ on any Howler you ever receive at this school.”

            The students stare at me a moment. Emberly says, “Professor Longbottom?”

            “Yes, Emberly?”

            “Can I be you when I grow up?”

            That punctures everything. I laugh, and so does everyone else. I gesture to the students. “Everyone to your stations. Let’s get this quiz started.”

 

I admit to being a little surprised when Olive comes up to my desk at the end of class. Olive has never sought me out before. I’d expect it from other students, but not from them. Then again, I suppose we have something to discuss.

            Clearing their throat, Olive looks at me and says, “May I speak to you, Professor?”

            I stop gathering my things. “Of course you may.” I gesture to a free chair, and Olive goes to pull it up to the desk. I see Evangeline debating whether to hang around, but she puts her head down and leaves. “Close the door after yourself, will you, Michael?”

            The door closes, and it’s just Olive and I in this cozy, dirty greenhouse.

            “How are your parents?” I ask, skipping the preamble.

            “Dad’s okay. He’s walking again. Mum hasn’t woken up.” I nod. I knew that, but sometimes it’s better to hear from the student. Olive says, “That’s not really what…”

            They look down. They’re biting their lower lip. I can see anger there.

            I’m certain they’re going to bring up the conversation I had with Evangeline, but instead, Olive says, “They shouldn’t have done that to you. The paper. It was none of their business.”

            At first, I’m taken aback. I quickly realize that we are, in fact, discussing that conversation. “They shouldn’t have, no. It wasn’t their place.”

            “I’m sorry they did that to you.” Olive wrinkles their nose. “They put what happened to my parents on the fifth page. They’re all the MA. The lot.”

            “I don’t want to make assumptions.”

            “They are. I know they are.”

            I think about how to respond. “I believe they are. Yes. But here’s the thing. I’ve been through a lot. It’s made me paranoid. It’s made me see shadows…where there are none. I’d feel quite poorly about it if that’s how you were starting out. It doesn’t leave much room for trust.”

            When I say ‘trust,’ Olive puts their head down. They stare at the floor, jaw tight.

            Gently, I prompt, “Should we talk about what Evangeline told me?”

            Olive’s face twitches. “She shouldn’t have told you about that.”

            “No. It was a breach of your trust. But it’s not as simple as that, is it.”

            “I don’t really care about that. Sir.”

            “Olive, I’ll tell you a secret. It gives me proper chills when people call me ‘sir.’ So we really don’t need to do that. I understand you’re upset with Evangeline. I’m not saying you shouldn’t be. She told me a secret that wasn’t hers to tell. We both know that she did it because she cares about you.” I lift a hand when I see Olive get uncomfortable. “She went about it the wrong way, yeah. But she knew that—the way people think about you, the way they speak about you, that it makes you uncomfortable. That it hurts. She was worried about you, and afraid, and—not in a position to control that. So she defended you the only way she could think of in that moment. We both know she didn’t do it maliciously. She did it because—because she’s your friend. She just picked a bad way to go about it because she was scared. I’m not upset with her for that. Fact of the matter is, it’s probably something I’d do myself. Like I said, though, I understand what it means when someone tells a secret that’s yours, and not theirs.”

            Olive says nothing for a few seconds. “I’m not ready for people to know,” they say quietly.

            “All right.”

            “I’m not ashamed. They just wouldn’t understand.”

            “You’re right, to some extent. Some of them won’t understand. Maybe most. But I’ll tell you something that you won’t want to believe. Most people are good. I believe that. I believe most people have good hearts. And even if they didn’t understand, they wouldn’t want to hurt you. They’d try. Some more than others. They wouldn’t always get it right. Maybe they never would. But if you give people no chance, then they never have a chance to prove themselves. At least, that’s what I think about it. I’ll do whatever you like about it.”

            “I’ll think it over, Professor.”

            “Fair enough. I want you to know, though, that if I slip and make a mistake, I will apologize to you. If not in the moment, later. And if I don’t notice, you need to remind me so that I do. Last thing I want to do is hurt you. You or anyone else.”

            Olive nods. “People make mistakes.”

            “And mistakes can be forgiven. Aye?”

            “Yes sir. Professor.”

            A thought occurs to me. “Are you all right with me using your name? If it makes you uncomfortable, I won’t say it.”

            “Olive’s the name my mum gave me.”

            I nod. “Too right. Well, I hope you’ll let me know if you change your mind about anything, or if there’s anything you need from me. All right?” Olive nods again, and I say, “Anything else on your mind?”

            I start reaching for my bag, thinking that we’re finished. But Olive pauses. I sit back up, and wait.

            Olive swallows, then murmurs, “My mum…what if she doesn’t wake up? What if…she’s just…like this…forever?”

            They raise their eyes to mine. Instead of a self possessed teenager, I see a child.

            I press my lips together, sighing. “I know a little something about that,” I say, which they obviously already know. I am, unfortunately, the authority on the topic. I make myself comfortable, folding my hands. “Sometimes mums don’t wake up. It happens. I’m not saying you should count on that. Maybe your mum wakes up. Maybe she gets better, maybe things go back to how they were before. It’s not naïve to hope for that. Perhaps just a touch unrealistic. Even if your mum is okay physically, it won’t be like it was before. Things will be different. And maybe she wakes up and she isn’t okay. Maybe she’s not the mum you remember. Maybe that changes, maybe it doesn’t. And maybe she doesn’t wake up at all. There’s a lot of things that could happen. Maybe good things, maybe bad things. Maybe a mix of both. A lot of things could happen. I can’t tell you how to prepare for that, because I don’t know if there’s a way to. But I don’t want to lie to you and tell you that I know everything will be okay. Because no one knows that right now.”

            “How do I…”

            “How do you what?”

            “I don’t know,” Olive says helplessly.

            “In some ways, you’re luckier than I am. I never knew my parents. I mean, I can touch them, I can talk to them—but they’re not really there. I know the stories that people have told me. But I don’t know them for myself. I never have. In that regard, I’m not much good to you, because I don’t know what it’s like to have parents. What I’m telling you only comes from theory. If the worst happens, and your mum doesn’t wake up, you’ll have something very precious. You’ll have memories. You’ll have the lessons your mum taught you. You’ll be able to teach your own children what she taught you, if you have them. Again, Olive, I’m not trying to discourage you from having hope. There’s nothing wrong with hope. I’m just here to tell you that—if it doesn’t work out like you hoped, it’s not the end. It doesn’t stop being sad. It never does. But sometimes the worst happens, and we can surprise ourselves with how much we can stand.”

            I’m afraid I’ve just been terribly doom and gloom with this child who needs reassurance. Stupid Neville, needing to be honest.

            Before I can apologize, Olive says, “All right.”

            “All right?” I echo, trying not to sound nervous.

            They nod, then push back their chair. “Thanks, Professor.”

            They get up, and so do I. “You know where to find me if you need me.”

            Olive nods, stepping away. They pause, and say, “I’m glad I’m in Gryffindor.”

            I smile slightly. “I’m glad you are too.”

            Olive walks away, head up.

 

When another owl comes beating at my window, I almost choke.

            I’m standing over my sink with a mouthful of potions. For a very real moment, I’m unsure if I’m going to spit it out or aspirate. I remind myself how valuable the ingredients are, and I force myself to swallow.

            As soon as I do, I’m choking. I grab the sides of the sink with both hands and lean over it, hacking. Bloody hell, can they not leave me alone? It’s ten at night on a school day!

            Once I’ve somewhat caught my breath, even though I still feel as if there’s something caught in my throat, I walk into my bedroom. Oh no. I know this owl as well.

            The owl stops scratching at the window as soon as it sees me. It perches outside, tilting its head at me. With a deep breath, I open the window and the owl hops inside.

            “Hello Beatrice,” I say.

            She drops the letter from her beak and hoots at me. Then she turns and starts wobbling around the floor, bobbing enthusiastically from side to side.

            Ginny and I gave Beatrice to Molly four Christmases ago. She’s a daft little thing. Sweet as anything, but her balance has never been that good. Molly adores her. She puts Beatrice in little hats for every holiday and sends us pictures.

            I tap the envelope against my hand a few times, then sit down at the edge of the bed. This is perhaps the letter I’ve dreaded most. Molly said I’d always be family, but…I won’t be. That’s not how it works. They’ll think fondly of me, I hope, but Ginny will have a new man to bring home. I hope they love him as much as they loved me.

            No use sitting around. At least she didn’t send me a Howler. I open the envelope and pull out the letter inside.

           

_Dear Nev,_

_I want you to know I have cancelled our subscription to the Prophet. I am absolutely furious that they would intrude on your privacy like that! It’s always been an awful rag pretending like it’s something better. I’ll admit, I do love the puzzles, but Arthur says he’ll just get me a book of them. It’s nothing more than propaganda for Death Eaters and I’m embarrassed I didn’t cancel sooner!_

_Your grandmother called this morning, and I do apologize but I gave her a piece of my mind. Augusta has never been afraid of sharing her opinions, but I rather lost my temper with her. I’m very sorry if that makes things difficult for you. I would apologize to her except to be honest I’d rather bite through my own tongue. I’m sure she’s sent you some nonsense and I encourage you to ignore it. When you’re old, you sometimes form bad opinions. I’m old enough that I have some bad opinions, but I feel that the good outweighs the bad!_

_Besides all this, I’m sure you’re doing well, but please let me know for certain. How are the students? How is being Head of Gryffindor? (We are still so very proud!) When will you be coming to visit? We miss you very much. I was down to see your mother and father the other week, and I’m always happy to visit them again if you’d like to come along._

_Enclosed is a picture of us with the grandchildren. Victoire is taller than I am!_

_Please visit soon, and sending you all my love,_

_Molly_

            I fold the letter over, and take out the photograph. I snort. Molly’s very valiantly trying to get everyone to pose. Hugo goes racing in front of the camera in only a nappy, and I see Arthur’s legs as he struggles to chase him down. Molly is trying to smile but she looks exasperated.

            My family. And not my family at all.

            I look for Beatrice. “You want some treats, old girl?”

            As she turns, she overshoots it and topples over. I laugh softly, then go to set her upright.


	21. Chapter 21

When I wake up, I know what time it is without having to look. It feels like 5:30. It’s dark, with the curtains drawn, but there’s a gentle glow from the bedside table. It’s a rock that Baltasar leaves out when he sleeps, and it brightens and darkens ever so slightly every time he breathes in and out.

            I lay here for a few seconds, doing nothing. His bed is more comfortable than mine. Yielding, but not too soft. It’s not the bed Aberforth put in here, of course. I’ve stayed at The Boar’s Head on nights when I’ve had a few too many, and the beds are little more than cots. Over the weeks, Baltasar has changed this room in all kinds of little ways.

            The bed’s been transformed to twice its original size, with a brightly coloured quilt. There’s never a speck of dust in the room. The ceiling has been spelled to show the night sky. His clothes are all hung in a standing closet. There are posters on the walls of musicians I’ve never heard of because they’re all Muggles. The walls are a pale shade of orange, and the wooden floors shine like they’re newly laid.

            This is rapidly becoming my favourite place to be.

            I look Baltasar over. Usually when I stay, I’ll wake up with him sleeping on top of me. This morning, he’s rolled away from me. His back is to me, thin shoulders hunched up. Even in the dim light, I can make out the shadows his bones make.

            Turning onto my side, I reach out a hand. I run the back of my index finger over his skin. Baltasar doesn’t stir. It’s not often I can just touch him like this. Most of the time, if I did something like this, he’d say something cutting. Not all the time, though. There are times when I’ll just touch him, nothing else, because I want to. He’ll watch me, focused as always. He’ll have a look in his eyes that I can never quite decipher.

            I have to be up and going soon, but not quite yet. I’ll just stay like this a little while longer.

            The last few weeks have been really good. I mean, not everything. I don’t want to think about everything right now. I just want to think about him. He’s the best thing I’ve got right now, and I didn’t see that coming. Maybe I should have.

            It’s difficult to not see him every day. I have my work, of course. I love my job. I love the students, and I love Hogwarts. That’s the largest part of my life. And he has his life. He goes off for days to find a willing crowd, or to visit friends he’s made in random places. I don’t try to stop him. One of the things I like best about him is that he’s untethered. We have a healthy relationship, able to be separate and then come back together to enjoy our time.

            But Merlin, if I could see Baltasar Byquist every day, I would.

            He’s a bloody wonder. Clever and biting and serious at the most unexpected times. He’s patient and impatient, willing to try new things and adamant when he decides he doesn’t like a thing. He literally plays with fire. He’s the best man I’ve ever had in bed by a far shot. He’ll listen to me talk for hours about whatever I want to tell him. School, the kids, my opinions, whatever. He tells me stories, tales from all around the world, places I’ve never heard of and will never go. I cannot get enough of him.

            Baltasar’s been surprisingly fine to deal with the press. We don’t give them the satisfaction of seeing us behaving like a couple. I’m not even exactly sure if that’s what we are—we’ve never spoken about definitions. He has a disillusionment charm that renders him unnoticeable even to me until he says my name, and that gets us past the journalists (vultures) plenty. Baltasar found a little shack in the mountains that we can escape to on weekends if more than two of them show up, or if Aberforth is getting on his nerves. On the occasion that a reporter jumps out in front of us with questions, they’ll swiftly find themselves dealing with a pigeon appearing on their head.

            I run my fingertips over his flesh. He’s slender, but I’d sooner get in a fight with a dragon than him. I’ve seen him verbally decimate an old woman who told him he should be ashamed of himself, coming between Ginny and me. As if Ginny and I haven’t been broken up nearly a year and a half. Baltasar almost took the woman’s head off, and I actually had to pick him up by the waist and carry him away when she finally began crying.

            I touch the vertebrae through his skin. I just love touching him. It’s rare that he’s ever completely relaxed like this. Even when we’re just sitting together, reading, it feels like there’s something in him not entirely unwound.

            My hand travels to the nape of his neck. He flinches in his sleep, and I jerk back my hand. Baltasar sucks in a deep breath, and the light flares for a second.

            I can see the outline of something on his back. It’s so brief that I could have plausibly imagined it. Only I’ve seen this man without his clothes so often that I’m sure I haven’t.

            I brush my thumb over his skin, then I reach back. Fumbling for my wand, I pick it off the bedside table, before bringing it to close to his spine. “ _Lumos_.”

            The wand end lights. I travel it over his skin, trying to figure out what I’m seeing. Where the light directly hits, there doesn’t seem to be anything. But around the edges, where it turns to shadows, I can just pick up the trace of lines.

            Baltasar mumbles, “What are you doing?”

            I rub my thumb over his skin. “What’s this?”

            “What’s what?”

            “These lines on your back.”

            Baltasar doesn’t reply immediately. “What does it look like?”

            Trying to figure it out, I guess, “A tree?”

            He sighs through his nose, nuzzling against the pillow. “It’s an old tattoo I got removed.”

            “Why?”

            “It was a mistake.”

            “Looks like a pretty big mistake.”

            I wait to see if he’ll say anything more about it. It takes a few seconds. “Yeah,” Baltasar says quietly. “The kind of mistake you can’t forgive. So you just forget it.” He stirs, reaching back for my hand. He pulls my arm over his body, drawing me closer. “I don’t know why you’re looking at that when you could have just woken me up by groping me.”

            “Not everything is about sex.”

            “Buzzkill. Can you get that light out of my eyes?”

            “Sorry,” I cringe. I toss the wand further down the bed. I settle against his back, resting my head on his. “I have to be going soon.”

            “No. Stay.”

            “You going to miss me?” I tease.

            “Yes,” Baltasar says.

            It catches me a little off guard. “I have work.”

            “I have a bed. You should stay in it.”

            “You’re sentimental when you’re sleepy.”

            “Fine. Go. Fuck off so I can sleep in. This is an ungodly hour anyways.” He throws my hand off, burying his hands under the pillow.

            I kiss his ear. “Sentimental.” Reluctantly, I pull away, rolling upwards to sit on the edge of the bed.

            Baltasar turns on his side, hair dishevelled and eyes squinted nearly shut. “I wasn’t serious. You don’t have to go yet.”

            “I do actually.” I get to my feet, stretching and having a yawn that cracks my jaw. I pad across the room to my clothes, strewn across the comfortable chair beneath the window.

            When I look over, Baltasar’s wiping the sleep from his eyes. “Busy tonight?”

            I think about it. “Don’t think so. End of the week, so I’ll be giving students homework, not grading it. You’ll be sticking around, then?”

            He nods, pulling the quilt up over his shoulder. “I was thinking about maybe going down to Edinburgh this weekend. They’ve got some sort of winter festival thing happening. This season’s the best outside of summer for me. I clean up at Christmas markets.”

            “So you’ll be gone after tonight.”

            Baltasar looks at me. “Neville, I’m asking if you’ll go with me.”

            “Oh.”

            He rolls his eyes. “There’s a resounding yes.”

            I’m standing with my jumper in my hands, trousers unbuttoned. “I could do a few hours, at least? I’m sure I could rustle up some Polyjuice if I had to.”    

            The answer clearly doesn’t please him. “Okay,” Baltasar says, not meeting my eyes.

            I don’t know what to do about this. We just—we haven’t gone out of the way to give fuel to the papers. I don’t touch him when other people are around, we don’t spend time together in public unless it’s at The Boar’s Head because there’s rarely anyone in there. I’m not ashamed of him or anything, I just—my whole life doesn’t need to be in the papers.

            “You know what,” Baltasar says. “Forget about it. I’ll be busy. It probably won’t be that much fun for you.”

            “Baltasar—”

            “What?”

            “Come on.”

            “Come on what?”

            “Don’t be cross.”

            “I’m not cross. I get it, I’m not your boyfriend. We’re good.”

            Now I really don’t know what to say. Here I was, thinking about how we weren’t using labels and now he’s…blimey. It’s really too early for this.

            “I have to get to work,” I say quietly.

            Baltasar nods. “Okay.” He gets out of bed and heads to the loo.

            “Baltasar—”

            He shuts the door.

 

 I’m turning a corner when I nearly slam full body into McGonagall.

            I fall back a step. She simply goes still, gritting her teeth.

            “Headmistress,” I apologize.

            “Longbottom,” she says, and walks around me. I stand here a second, then turn. McGonagall continues down the hall, as if I’ve already been forgotten.

            That hasn’t gotten any better. She’s been extremely chilly with me the past while. I hate it. I figured having McGonagall think highly of me was uncomfortable. This is just as bad.

            She’s welcome to her opinion, I suppose. Just because she thinks teachers should be monks doesn’t mean I have to listen.

            I blow out a breath and continue walking. I could go in for breakfast, but I don’t know that I really want to. Aida will give me a lot of winks and nudges and want me to spill about Baltasar. I haven’t, because it’s private. That and I’m feeling terrible about our conversation this morning and I don’t want to think about it. I’d rather just go to my greenhouse and get ready for the day.

            I’ve the third year Gryffindors this afternoon. I wish I didn’t. I know Lavinia is trying her best, but she does get on my nerves. Ever since the xiddig incident, she’s even more eager than before. She puts her hand up for every question, even if she’s not entirely sure of the answer. I’ve taken to just randomly selecting students for answers, which leads to those dreadful, embarrassing pauses that make everyone squirm. Lavinia volunteers for everything, to the point where she seems a bit frantic. I know she’s trying to make up for the greenhouse blowing up, but she needs to take it down a notch. I’ve no idea how to say it to her.

            The other students are mostly all right. I’ve realized that I enjoy Olive immensely. They and Evangeline clearly haven’t made up yet. Augustine asked if he could start a herbology club, and I asked him if he could show me how he would possibly fit it into his schedule. He couldn’t without a Time Turner, so there will be no herbology club. Lucien broke both his arms playing pick up Quidditch over the weekend, but cheerfully told me, “Ravenclaw will still slaughter your team next week, sir.” I could see Gulbahar staring daggers into the back of his head, so I’m concerned that Lucien might be about to break his arms again.

            All my many Harrys are disasters of various flavours, but that, of course, is to be expected. You don’t pick that name and expect everything will be smooth.

            “Psst.”

            I almost trip, and sigh at myself for it. I look back. “Teddy?”

            Teddy Lupin is leaning out from a hole in the wall. He’s the spitting image of his father, which makes me sad, and grateful. Well, he’s the spitting image of Remus Lupin save for when he doesn’t have a purple mohawk or alligator jaws. He does have a terrible habit of popping out from places you never expect. It’s uncanny, actually. It’s like he knows about tunnels behind the walls. I’ve no clue how he does it, but it makes me think about Fred and George Weasley, and how they’d jump out at me when I could have sworn I was alone.

            Walking back to Teddy, I say, “How do you _do_ that?”

            Looking at me with innocent, neon green eyes, Teddy says, “Do what, sir?” As he is literally leaning out from a hidden door in the stones.

            I bend down, looking past him. There’s a staircase behind him, leading up. I turn my eyes back to Teddy and say flatly, “What.”

            He has the cheek to roll his eyes, but then he says, “Professor, I need your help. With a sensitive matter.”

            I could press him on how he spiders about behind the walls. Or I could choose to help a mischievous fourteen-year-old who would normally choose a painful death over seeking out an adult.

            “What do you need?”

            Teddy makes a face. “I was…passing by Professor Flitwick’s room.”

            Professor Flitwick’s room is up the Ravenclaw tower, accessible by a single staircase. I arch a brow. “Passing by?”

            “Yes, complete coincidence, only…” He coughs, and drops some of the cleverness. Lowering his voice, Teddy says, “I think something’s wrong.”

            “What do you mean, wrong?”

            Avoiding my eyes, Teddy responds, “I think maybe you should check in on him, sir.”

            I gaze at him a moment. “How long ago was this?”

            “Just now. You won’t tell him I said anything, will you?”

            “I won’t tell him if you get out of that bloody wall, Edward Lupin.” He climbs out sheepishly, and the stones automatically seal shut behind him. I look at the wall a moment, then point in the direction of the Great Hall. “Off you go, then.”

            Teddy quickly takes off. “Ta, Professor!” he calls back over his shoulder, lifting a hand. I take a deep breath, turning towards Ravenclaw, when I hear a door open and close. I look back, and Teddy’s disappeared.

            Cheek.

 

I manage to get through the Ravenclaw door after approximately ten tries. The sphynx asks me a riddle that is impenetrable and doesn’t accept, “Listen, I’m a professor,” as an answer. I finally have to ask one of the portraits down the hallway for help. He gets the riddle in one go—a pomegranate, how was I supposed to get that?—and I make my way inside.

            I cross the calm blue Common Room, then make my way up the stairs to Flitwick’s room. It’s entirely possible Teddy is sending me on a wild goose chase. I know he’s one for pranks. He’s a middling student in my class, but he could be at the top if he made the effort. He puts most of his energy into amusing himself, however.

            Again, I’m reminded of Fred and George. I’ve confiscated Weasley’s Wheezes from Teddy more times than can be counted on a single hand. I blame Ron for that.

            It’s ridiculous that Flitwick is up this tower, especially at his age. He has the shortest legs. For all I know, he levitates his way up here.

            Of course, levitation makes me think of Baltasar.

            Can’t think about him now. I’m busy.

            As I get closer to the door, I realize that Teddy hasn’t been pulling my leg. I’m five steps from the top when I realize I can hear the low, desperate sounds of someone weeping.

            Bugger.

            I’m the least qualified to deal with an upset coworker. An upset anyone. I do my level best, but I’m awkward, I know I am. Only I’m here, so I’m committed.

            Clearing my throat, I tap softly on the door with my knuckles. “Professor?” Merlin’s beard, Neville, don’t be an idiot. You’re Head of your own House. “Filius? It’s Neville.” I hear his distinctive squeak. I knock again. “Are you all right?”

            I hear things falling.

            “Filius? Can you open the door, please?”

            “Just—just a moment!”

            There’s the sound of movement. A lot of movement. Like the whole room is in motion. I’ve a bad feeling. I’ve half a mind to draw my wand and try to get in, but I’m not an idiot. He’s the Charms professor. If I try to open his door without his permission, I’ll be spelled so hard I’ll be lucky to remember my own name.

            Abruptly, the noise stops, and there are a few hard sniffles. The door jerks open. Flitwick looks up at me, pretending everything is normal and failing miserably. He’s missed a button on his robes and his mustache is lopsided.

            “How may I help you, Professor Longbottom?”

            I wait a second, then ask, “Are you all right?”

            “Yes, why do you ask?”

            His toupee is crooked as well. I look past him. His room seems fine, only with small details awry. Like he tried to spell everything right in a panic. Which he obviously did.

            “One of the students said you seemed upset. I wanted to check in on you.”

            Flitwick smiles, but it’s a bit frightening. “Perfectly fine!”

            I give him a moment, then say, “Filius—”

            “Professor Longbottom. If you’ll excuse me, I should be getting to class.”

            Pursing my lips, I consider standing my ground. But this is Filius Flitwick, the man who dueled Voldemort. He could put me in contusions before I even realized what was happening. “Okay,” I say reluctantly, stepping back. Then, because I can’t help it, I add, “You put the lamp back upside down.”

            His head snaps as he turns to look. The lamp, of course, is rightside up, but the shade is bent. He glares at me, and I raise my brows. With a grunt, Flitwick slams the door in my face.

            All right. That was…peculiar.

            I walk back down the stairs, confused and concerned. Should I go to McGonagall? And tell her what, precisely? That Flitwick was acting odd? We’re Hogwarts professors; we’re all odd.

            I’m back in the Common Room when a soft voice says, “Someone stole from him.”

            The ghost of Ravenclaw stands by one of the sofas. She doesn’t stand, really. She floats.

            “Someone what?” I ask. She narrows her eyes. Coughing, I bow my head. “My lady.”

            “He didn’t hear them. I didn’t hear them either. He was sleeping. When I heard him yelling, I went upstairs. Everything he owned was turned upside down and inside out. Whether that was him or the thief, I could not say. Only he was saying, ‘Where is it?’ to himself. When he saw me, he yelled at me to leave. He’s never done that before. Not in fifty years. It must have been something quite precious indeed.” I open my mouth to ask questions, but the Grey Lady says, “That is all I know, so that is all I will say.”

            She turns and floats away, disappearing through the wall.

 

I try to corner Flitwick before lunch to get further details, but he’s not having it. “Nothing of the sort occurred,” he says indignantly when I ask if someone broke into his room.

            “If someone’s stealing things, McGonagall should know about it—”

            At McGonagall’s name, his eyes widen. “I will kindly ask that you keep out of _my_ business!” he yelps, then turns and scurries into the Great Hall.

            So, fuck it, I go to McGonagall.

            She doesn’t react well either. I mean, she doesn’t react at all, really. I tell her the story, and she sits behind her desk, listening impassively.

            When I finish, McGonagall says, “Is there anything else?”

            I give it a beat, then ask, “Someone stole from Flitwick and he doesn’t want anyone to know about it. Does there need to be more than that?”

            “Students have a long history of playing pranks on their professors, Longbottom, particularly Professor Flitwick. If it is, in fact, something more serious than that, I expect Professor Flitwick to deal with any disciplinary issues that arise within his own House unless he comes to me for assistance.”

            It’s my turn to say, “Is that it?”

            McGonagall says, “Was there anything else you wished to discuss with me?”

            I stare at her, then I give up. If no one else is going to give a shit, I don’t see why I should. “No. Nothing at all.”

            As I turn to leave, McGonagall says, “My door is open if there’s anything _else_ you’d like to discuss.”

            Her tone rubs me the wrong way. I can tell exactly what she means by that.

             “No,” I say, “I don’t expect there will be.”

 

I’m aggressively repotting a shriek brush when Bellatrix Lestrange comes roaring into my greenhouse.

            She swoops in from thin air, hovering over me in the same rags she wore when Molly killed her. Arms wide, she howls, “Traitor! Mudblood loving traitor—”

            I turn in my seat and glare up at her. “Fuck off, Bellatrix!”

            For a second, she’s so surprised that she doesn’t do anything. She just sort of freezes there. Of course, once she comes to her senses, she goes off.

            “How _dare_ you speak to me that way! You filth! You—”

            “Traitor, yeah, _I get it_. It loses its effect after the second or third time, especially from you. Because you’re absolutely pathetic, Bellatrix.”

            “Insolent—the Dark Lord will know of your betrayal—”

            “Voldemort’s dead, you loopy old hag.”

            “HOW DARE YOU SPEAK HIS NAME!”

            “He’s dead, and you’re dead, you lost the war, you don’t scare me. You’re just some vapors too afraid of hell to move on. Is this your future, you idiot? You’re going to pop out from corners scaring children for eternity? Is that your reward?”

            She’s suddenly flying right at me, mouth wide and arms outstretched.

            Rolling my eyes, I say, “Oh, piss off—”

            She sends me flying. I’m so startled by the force of it that I don’t really do anything. I just go sailing into the wall, smashing the shelves and dropping in a pile of splinters and broken glass. Bellatrix vanishes with a final howl.

            I sit a moment, knowing everything is going to really hurt in a moment. I’m a fool. What was I thinking? You don’t antagonize the ghosts. That just makes them stronger.

            Oh—now there’s the pain. And the wet cold. I lift my left arm. There’s a large shard of glass sticking out of my forearm. My hand starts shaking. Not because I’m frightened. I think it might be the blood loss.

            There’s footsteps pounding on the ground, then another unexpected face appears. Herman stands at the entrance of the greenhouse, jaw agape. “Are you all right?”

            I raise my bleeding arm a little higher, showing him the glass.

            He yanks out his wand, looking side to side. “Who did it? Are they still here?”

            I suppress the urge to laugh. “Bellatrix,” I say with a straight face.

            Herman stops, lowering his wand. “Oh. Right then.” He clears his throat, then comes walking down the aisle. “Let’s get that fixed, shall we?”

 

I’m sitting at my desk, arm extended. The left arm took the brunt of the damage. I was so distracted by the one shard that I didn’t notice all the smaller ones.

            Herman is just finishing up with the last of the cuts. He has an unexpectedly light hand at healing. I won’t have any new scars from this adventure.

            “Is that venomous tentacula?” Herman asks.

            I look at my trusty old purple scar, wrapping its way around my arm. “Yeah.”

            “Guess that makes you a real herbologist then.” He clears his throat, not quite looking me in the eyes. We haven’t really spoken in weeks. To be honest, I would have expected him to tell me to just fuck off to Madam Pomfrey’s. Herman narrows his eyes, looking over his work, then sits back. “That’s the worst of it.”

            “Says you. I think I have splinters in my arse.”

            After a moment, he says, “Do—you want me to—”

            “No,” I say, flushing. “I’m joking.” I’m not, but I don’t want Herman pulling splinters from my rear end, thank you. “Uh—appreciate this, mate. Thanks.”

            He nods. “Don’t mention it.”

            We don’t say anything. I know I need to. Whatever he came over here looking for, students are going to start showing up in a little under fifteen minutes, and I need to take care of some of this mess. The glass, I mean, not the workplace politics.

            Herman doesn’t offer to speak, so I finally say, “What brings you around, anyway?”

            He frowns, then says, “I’m quite done with the whole school hating me, so if we could mend fences, I would appreciate that.”

            “Sorry?”

            “You get punched in the face by the legendary Neville Longbottom, people assume you’re a piece of shit.”

            “Oh. No, I—” I run a hand over my face. I’m tired. This day is just not what I wanted. “Listen, I know I lost my temper, but you laid hands on a student—”

            “I did no such thing—”

            “Don’t start—”

            “Start what?” Herman says, indignant. “She’s not a student, she’s a Death Eater.”

            “She’s thirteen.”

            “You think they don’t start that young? You of all people can’t tell me that some aren’t just born bad.”

            “Lavinia is not a bad kid.”

            “They can fool you. They know the right things to say, how to blend in.”

            “You sound paranoid.”

            “You don’t sound paranoid _enough_.”

            I take a deep breath. It’s not as if what he’s saying is unfamiliar to me. It’s like the darkest part of me has been allowed to speak. “Look—Herman. We all lost people in the war. No one knows exactly how to deal with the kids of Death Eaters. But you can’t scare the shit out of a thirteen-year-old just because you’re angry.”

            “I didn’t lose anyone.”

            “Herman—”

            “My sister was one. And she was born that way.”

            That I did not know. “No one’s ever said anything.”

            Lip curling, Herman says, “We had different fathers. I was three years older. I knew what she was from the start. Everyone loved her. She knew what to say. She knew how to wrap everyone around her little finger. Except I could see that there was something wrong with her, and no one would listen. They said I was being unreasonable. Paranoid. But you know how when a person smiles, only it doesn’t reach their eyes? That was my sister through and through. I wasn’t here when the war happened. I was in Romania, doing my research. My mother sent me a letter telling me what my sister had done. And everyone was shocked. Heartbroken. Everyone asking, oh, why didn’t we see it coming, we could have never seen it coming.” Herman shakes his head, eyes fiery. “But _I_ saw it coming. No one listened, and my sister killed more people than you could count on your fingers and toes. I don’t care if you bleeding hearts want to stand around and congratulate yourself for taking in the child of Death Eaters. You’re so set on proving that you can forgive that you don’t want to see that they’re rising again. That Carrow girl—she smiles and pretends and she’s the spitting image of my sister. That smile doesn’t reach her eyes. Mark me, Longbottom. Ten years time, if you don’t wise up, you’ll be asking yourself, why didn’t I see it coming.”

            He sits back, brow knitted, arms crossed.

            When I reply, I keep my voice even. “That must have been difficult. I can’t imagine how difficult it was. But if you’re using it as an excuse to hate a child, then you and I don’t have much else to discuss.”

            Herman glares at me a moment. Then he pushes himself upright, and storms off.

            I pat my hands together, and look around the greenhouse. What a mess.

 

The truth of the matter is, I’m bruised badly enough that I don’t really clean things up. I throw on a fresh set of robes, and put a blanket up over the broken glass and shelves. My third years look properly perturbed, but I assure them, “Hazards of being a Herbologist, never a dull moment.”

            My leg is killing me, though, so I spend the class behind my desk, counting down the minutes until I can go to the infirmary. I set them loose on their projects and try to inconspicuously heal my bottom with a well placed wand. It doesn’t go very well.

            I let them loose twenty minutes early because enough is enough. I’m trying to poke my bum with my wand under the cover of my desk, and I feel patently ridiculous. Most of them look excited. A few of them are kind enough to look concerned. I tell them that I trust them to clean up before leaving, and then I limp off to see Madam Pomfrey.

            “Professor Longbottom, you have multiple lacerations on your rear end,” Madam Pomfrey declares after circling me once.

            I’m too tired to even give her a proper blush. “Yes, I imagine I must.”

            So I end up face down on a hospital bed as a woman my grandmother’s age removes pieces of wood from my backside, feeling about as dignified as one would expect. And in this moment, I just wish I could see Baltasar tonight.

            I’m a _moron_. I keep pretending like he’s not invested, that he can just pick up and leave whenever he likes without any hard feelings. Except he came up here of his own accord, and he’s _stayed_. Over a month and a half, he’s stayed here for me. Meanwhile, I just pop in and out when it’s convenient for me. I’ve been an entitled prick.

            It’s just…I like him, yeah. I really bloody like him. I might even more than like him, if the truth is told. I wasn’t expecting him, though. I wasn’t expecting _this_.

            You don’t expect a man like Baltasar Byquist, though. You just act grateful when you land him. Because not everyone gets so lucky.

            I should apologize. Fuck, I really need to apologize. Do I know what I’ll say to him? No, of course not. But I need to say something.

            Madam Pomfrey finishes up relatively quickly. She must remember the last few times I’ve been in here. I was surprisingly stern with her one time when she wanted to keep me for a few hours. I stood over her, determined to get out the door, and said, “I have a class to attend to. Now. I will be leaving.” I expected her to roll her eyes and shove me back into bed like she had countless students and professors over the year. Only Madam Pomfrey looked me in the eyes, then stepped aside. I was so shocked I wasn’t able to move at first. It’s still a shock, that the people I knew when I was young consider me an equal.

            I head back to the greenhouse, a bit sore, but nowhere near as bad as I was before. I just have to take care of the broken shelves and glass, and then I can head over to Hogsmeade. Hopefully Baltasar is there. I wouldn’t blame him if he’s buggered off down to that winter festival he was talking about.

            I walk through the door and—

            I pull my wand. “Who is that?”

            There’s someone rustling around behind the blanket on the wall. It’s not as if there’s valuables back there, or important information, but after Flitwick, I’m not taking any chances. The blanket stops moving, then a little voice says, “Sorry?”

            Dropping my wand, I say, “Lavinia?”

            As I walk down the aisle, Lavinia stands up, leaning around the side of the blanket. She’s going scarlet. I can see that her hands are dirty. What on earth has she been doing?

            “Lavinia,” I say, coming to stand over her, “what were you doing back there?”

            She gulps, gazing up at me with wide eyes. “I-I thought I’d—” She can’t get the next word out, so she thrusts aside the blanket. “I thought I’d clean things up…a little.”

            The dirt and glass have all been pushed off to the side. She hasn’t done a fantastic job of it, to be honest. I still see glittering pieces of glass littered on the ground, and I realize with some horror that she’s tried to do a lot of this with her hands instead of her wand.

            I can also see dirty fingerprints on some of the books.

            I start to get a sick feeling in my stomach. I start to feel all my doubts and fears swirling together. She’s not like them. I wanted to believe that she wasn’t like them—

            Stop it, Neville. Be a professor, not a blithering idiot.

            “Lavinia,” I say evenly, “why were you going through my things?”

            “I-I wasn’t—”

            I point at the bookshelf. “I can see where you were going through the books. Why would you do that?”

            “I—was putting things away. I—some of them are books I… I can’t get them from the library, I just wanted to see—”

            “Did you take anything?”

            Lavinia turns an even darker shade of red. “ _No_! I just…I wanted to help—”

            “Why would you move the glass with your hands and not your wand? You could have been hurt.”

            “It’s—it’s how we did it at Ilvormorny—”

            She stops speaking when I close my eyes. I wanted to believe the best, but—this is suspicious. That’s what this is. There’s no way around it. It makes no sense, and I can’t pretend that it does just to prove to myself that I can forgive, that I can believe the best in people. There’s hope, and then there’s being naïve, and we’ve passed that.

            Opening my eyes, I say, “Lavinia. Did you take anything from Professor Flitwick?”

            Staring at me, for a moment Lavinia is the spitting image of her aunt. The shape of the eyes, the way her mouth hangs open. It’s uncanny.

            “What? No!”

            “If you did, now is the time to say something. It will be better if you say it now instead of later.”

            “Say what?” Lavinia trills. “I was cleaning!”

            Her voice is grating. I can feel it in the back of my skull. “You were snooping. At best. I doubt it’s common practice to search through your professor’s things at Ilvormorny. You need a better reason.”

            “I wanted to—I wanted to clean up! That’s all!”

            I’ve had enough. Stepping aside so that she has a clear shot at the door, I say, “Please leave.”

            “But—”

            “I’ll see you Saturday for detention. If you want to explain yourself before then, you can see me in my office.”

            Now Lavinia is paling at an alarming rate. “I’ve never had detention before,” she says, horrified. Or at least she sounds horrified. I can’t tell if she means it. I don’t think that she does. I should have given her detention for the xiddig, but I thought it was a mistake, I only made her write an essay on the importance of following instructions. I’m a fool. I am an absolute fool.

            “Saturday, six o’clock, here with the others. Go on now.”

            “But I didn’t—I didn’t do anything—”

            “If you don’t want to accept your punishment, I can take this matter to the Headmistress.”

            “The—but I didn’t _do_ anything—”

            I can’t take it. “Lavinia! You’re not doing yourself any favours!” I point to the door, struggling to keep my temper in check. “Please— _leave_.”

            She stands there, on the verge of tears. She looks around, opening and closing her mouth. With a loud sniffle, she puts her head down and walks past me.

            Lavinia stops abruptly and turns her face up to me. “I’m not them!”

            “Prove it,” I snap.

            And regret it immediately.

            My anger is punctured, and I want to erase everything I said and thought in the last minute. What am I doing? “Lavinia—”

            But she’s running out of the greenhouse, already weeping. Her bag is half open and her possessions begin to spill, but she doesn’t slow, just needing to be as far from me as fast as she can.

            I watch her go, then I sit down at the closest work station. Putting my face in my hands, I give my head a shake. “You’re a real Severus Snape, you prick,” I mutter at myself.

            Once I’m done feeling sorry for myself, I go to collect her things.


	22. Chapter 22

Baltasar hits the top of his head against the bed frame and cries out. He tries to brace his hand against it, but I grab his wrist and squeeze. He yanks at it, but I hold him tighter as I rock in and out of him. The sounds he makes, from the back of his throat—I lift his hand and he tangles his fingers into my hair, hissing at me.

            I’m empty. It’s just me and him and _this_ —I’m nothing but this. His legs are wrapped around me, and the heat in the room is unbearable. It’s all unbearable and I want to explode and not exist.

            I’m going to. I’m going to.

            His body is all sharp planes, arched up off the bed to meet me, to escape from me. I am not in control. I am in control. I slam into him hard enough that he wails. He grabs my hair with both hands and forces me down against him, his body up towards me, then our faces are together. His mouth is against my mouth, his hot breath, and I try to get away but he growls, “Do it, you fucking bitch, just do it—”

            I do.

            I go clear and I have electric spikes jam themselves up the back of my neck. Faintly, I feel him go tense under me, around me, but I’m just…I’m just…

            Oh.

            A few thousand years later, I’m a panting mess propped over another panting mess. I don’t think, I just pull out from Baltasar, so abrupt that he yelps, reaching down to slow me, but the deed’s already done. I drop to his side, on my back, and try to breathe.           

            That was…

            Bloody hell, that was something else.

            I can hear Baltasar wheezing, short, shallow breaths that won’t slow. “Cool,” he says in a slightly high pitched voice. “Cool cool cool.”

            Do I apologize? I’m realizing I was rather rough with him, from the moment I came through the door to less than a minute ago. What’s wrong with me? Nimue’s tits, what’s wrong with me?

            I open my mouth, but Baltasar says, “If you apologize, I will fucking bite your tongue off.”

            “I don’t know what got into me, I’m sorry—”

            He flops a hand onto my face, fingers bonelessly searching for my mouth. “Let me see your tongue.”

            He pulls his hand away, and I look over at him. Baltasar has his eyes closed. There are red marks all over him. I did that. “I…didn’t mean to hurt you.”

            “You didn’t.”

            “You’ll be all out in bruises.”

            “Neville, Christ, just…don’t ruin the moment.”

            I’m supposed to be apologizing. Not even for this, for something else entirely. I was going to see him and say that I was sorry for treating him like someone I just show up to shag before running off again. Then what do I do? I show up here and practically assault the man. What is wrong with me these days?

            Baltasar sighs, and sits up. Pulling his hair back from his face, he squints at me. “What’s wrong?” Baltasar says, exasperated.

            “I just feel bad that I—”

            “No. I mean, what prompted this? You were obviously pissed about something when you got here. You had some sort of issues you needed to work out. Which, hey—if it means I get fucked like that, you work out your issues whenever you like. If you want to make it a regular thing, though, we should maybe discuss boundaries and safe words and things like that.” I cover my face. I’m not _that_ kind of man. Professor Neville Longbottom is not meant to have bloody safe words. When Baltasar speaks again, his voice is softer. “So what’s wrong?”

            “Nothing—”

            “Neville, so help me God, I’ll hex your cock—”

            Tossing my hands down, I say, “I had a shit day, all right? It was just…start to finish. It was all terrible. And I did something terrible. So I just…fuck, I’m sorry, all right? I’m sorry.”

            Baltasar studies me a moment, then lays down on his side, propping his head up. I studiously avoid his eyes. “Tell me about it,” he says.

            “I don’t need to—I mean, I haven’t even asked you how you’re—”

            “I’m fine. I mean, you really killed my post orgasm haze, but I’m fine. C’mon. Tell me about your day.” He pokes me in the arm. “Tell me.”

            I feel like a right idiot coming in here and complaining to him. Embarrassed too, after how I behaved. Except he’s asking. He doesn’t have to, but he is.

            So I tell him.

            I tell him about Teddy. I tell him about Flitwick. I tell him about McGonagall not caring. I tell him about Bellatrix Lestrange. I tell him about Herman.

            I tell him about Lavinia.

            He doesn’t say a word. It takes me ten minutes, if not more, to tell him the story of my day. Baltasar doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t stop me. He just watches me with total focus and lets me get the words out. He’s one of the best listeners I’ve ever known.

            When I get to Lavinia, I can’t be objective about it.

            “I don’t know why I acted like that,” I say. “So many people, they say things about her, and every time, I do the right thing. I do what I know is the right thing. She’s a child. She had nothing to do with the war. I know she’s not her aunt, or her uncle, or any of them. I’ve stuck my flag in the sand on that. But when it was just me and her…I lost it. It’s not like I grabbed her or berated her. It was still wrong. I know it was wrong.”

            Baltasar finally speaks. “She was going through your things. She _was_ doing something wrong.”

            “I _know_ , but I didn’t stick to that. I went for the family angle, and that’s shit. I hate when people do that. It’s cheap and it’s counter productive—and yeah, I’ve done it before, but I did it to a kid. I can’t just overlook that. I was at fault. Fucking up is one thing, but fucking up with a child is another.”

            “Is it just her family that gets under your skin? I know that little shit you were talking about isn’t the only one who’s got a family history.”

            I pause before I tell him the truth. “I hoped I’d like her,” I admit. “I hoped she’d be just another student, only with this family thing hanging over her. The truth is—I can’t stand her. She’s _insufferable_.” Baltasar smothers a smile, and I continue, “She’s just the worst. She thinks she knows better than everyone else, she tries to answer every single question when she doesn’t even know the answer. She went through my things, and for all I know, Flitwick’s as well. She fought to stick herself into the one place in the world that would never accept her. Her being at Hogwarts makes other students upset. Professors—parents. She doesn’t take other people’s needs into account. It’s just about what she wants, because she thinks she knows best. If you’re going to be a know-it-all, for fuck’s sake, at least be right about things.” Once I’ve gotten it all out, I groan. “I’m the _worst_.”

            “Think of the children,” Baltasar teases. “Oh, the poor children, we have to give them all a chance.”

            “I know. I know, we’re not supposed to have favourites, or ones that we just don’t like. But the truth is…there are students we like. And students we can’t stand. It doesn’t even always need to make sense. My first year, I had a seventh year I loathed. It wasn’t like he’d done anything wrong. It was just that he’d had everything in life handed to him, and he expected that everything always would be. And he was right. He’s one of those people who’s going to lead a charmed life, and it annoyed me. There are some students that simply rub against the grain. I wouldn’t care for Lavinia even if she wasn’t a Carrow. The fact that she is, though…I feel all the guiltier for not liking her.”

            “You don’t talk about them.”

            I think about it, then shrug. “No. I don’t suppose I do.”

            “You don’t talk about any of it.”

            “What? The war?” He nods, and I shrug again. “It was a long time ago.”

            “It was a war.”

            “I was seventeen.”

            “It was a war,” Baltasar repeats.

            “You don’t understand. It’s just a part of my story. I don’t…I don’t know any different. What’s normal for me isn’t what’s normal for other people. For me, it’s odd that people have parents. It’s odd that people grow up without the spectre of some awful conflict hanging over their heads. It’s just a thing that happened. It was important, I know it’s important, but it’s not the only part of me. If you let it be the largest part of your life, you end up like Harry off in Chiltern all those years, people not letting you be anything other than what you were when you were a child. I’ve fought to not just be Neville Longbottom, the boy who was incidental to the life of Harry Potter. I’m—a herbologist. I’m a professor. I’m a good bloke—when I’m not emotionally scarring children. And yeah, when I was a boy, there was a war. I’m more than one thing, though.”

            “You think I don’t know that?”

            I look at Baltasar. He’s still watching me, unblinking. Not judging, just listening. “You ever been through anything like that?”

            “I’ve been a lot of places. I’ve seen a lot of things.”

            “You don’t go into detail either.”

            “I’ve been outside it. I’ve been an observer. You were in it. It doesn’t seem right to compare.”

            “Do I make you feel that way? Like, oh, I’m the big war hero, I was so oppressed, you can’t tell me anything because you don’t know my suffering.”

            “No. You dramatic bitch.” I crack a smile, and Baltasar says, “I just wondered if maybe you feel like you _can’t_ tell me. Like…maybe you don’t feel like…” He tucks his hair back and shakes his head. “I dunno, Neville. Never mind.”

            This is the same conversation from this morning. I’m thick, but I’m not a complete moron.

            I lay my head so I can look right at him. “What do you want to know?”

            Baltasar gazes back. I can tell that he wants to say I don’t have to, that it’s fine. Only curiosity wins out, and he asks me what people most want to know. “What was it like? Defeating the Dark Lord?”

            “I didn’t do that.”

            “You helped.”

            “I helped, yeah.”

            “What was it like?”

            “It happened pretty… Actually. I was going to say that it happened pretty fast, but that’s not the truth. Back then, part of me felt like nothing was set in stone. That we couldn’t know what was to come. But there was a large part…I knew. I knew we’d win. Not the way a child believes everything will be all right, in the end, if you just hope and you’re good. I knew we’d win, and that it wouldn’t be easy, and that maybe even I’d die along the way, but that we would win, and it would all be worth fighting for. I knew it, Baltasar, I knew it like it had been written in the stars. And maybe it had.”

            He furrows his brows. “How do you mean?”

            I consider it. I think of all the secrets Baltasar has kept, and I tell him what I’ve never told anyone.

            “The Sorting Hat,” I say.

 

The second and last time I wore the Sorting Hat, I was in a no man’s land between Death Eaters and an army I had helped build. Harry Potter was dead, and the man who killed him was gloating.

            So I did what any angry young man convinced of his cause would do. I ran out to meet him.

            He disarmed me with barely a thought. Up until that moment, Voldemort had only been an abstract concept. Like evil. I had seen evil, I had even experienced it, but it didn’t occur to me how effortless it could be in the hands of a single person. He was so powerful. I barely felt it when the wand left my hand. He had taken it from me so neatly that it might have never been there in the first place.

            Then I was on the ground, a feeling running through me like lightning. He hadn’t needed to open his mouth. He’d pointed his wand at me and I was thrown off my feet.

            I lay there, heart pounding in my ears. I knew that I might die in the war. You don’t grow up with parents who can’t remember their own names and not understand that war demands sacrifices. But I had never dwelled on how I would die. There was no point in it.

            But on the ground, listening to the cackle of Bellatrix Lestrange, I realized that this could be the moment of my death.

            As I regained my bearings, I looked into Nagini’s eyes. Its head bobbed side to side. Its master’s robes fluttered against it, covering it, revealing it. We looked into each other’s eyes, and I decided that it was better to die on my feet than on the ground.

            It was better to die, I decided, standing back up, than to spend twenty years in a hospital bed.

            Voldemort was crowing about something, and my hands made fists as I thought of every person I had ever lost because of this thing. He was not a man any longer. He was real, yes, but he had turned himself into an idea, an idea that I was opposed to with every fibre of my being.

            “You are a pure blood, aren’t you, my brave boy?”

            My lip curled. Even now, that’s what he cared about. “So what if I am,” I said to the Dark Lord.

            “You show spirit, and bravery, and come of noble stock.”

            That he would say that. That this monster would look at me with his red eyes and featureless face, and have the audacity to speak of where I came from. That noble stock he spoke of were zombies, that he had made. Noble stock. He didn’t know what it felt like to beg his mother to say his name and have her unable to focus on his face. He didn’t know what it was to be eight years old and go to visit his father at Christmas, only to sit down and realize he was sitting in a puddle of his own father’s piss.

            This thing—had _robbed_ me.

            So when he asked me to join his Death Eaters, I said the only thing I ever could.

            “I’ll join you when hell freezes over!” I roared. “Dumbledore’s army!”

            I knew he was happy. I knew he wanted to kill me to make an example to the others. Just like he had Harry’s body there, to scare us all. Only I could see Harry’s body, and I wasn’t broken. I wasn’t bowed. At the moment of my death, I stood strong, and firm in my beliefs, and I was proud of myself in a way no one had ever thought to be proud of me.

            I was proud, because I knew I was a good man.

            Voldemort smiled, and I didn’t listen to another word he said, because I knew I was about to die.

            _I love you_ , I thought. I didn’t think it to anyone in particular. I wanted my final thoughts to be this. _I love you all_.

            He raised his wand as he strode towards me. He pointed it at the castle. I stared right at him and did not move a step as he approached. He wanted me to be afraid. I wasn’t afraid of him. All he could do was kill me. As much as he might like to think it, he couldn’t kill us all.

            Voldemort lifted his hand and caught something from the air.

            Now that—gave me pause.

            In his hand, he held the Sorting Hat. He seemed pleased with himself. He was saying something about sorting, taking it away or something, but I wasn’t listening. Voldemort seemed very sure of himself, but all at once I was thinking of first year.

            I had thought a lot about the Hat over the years. It hadn’t made sense to me for a long time, what the Hat told me. I hadn’t told anyone what it told me, because no one spoke about what the Hat told them. But I didn’t believe anyone else had been told something like the Hat had told me.

            Which is why I went completely still when Voldemort slammed the Hat down over my head. He didn’t understand the Hat. He never had.

            _Stay very still, Neville Longbottom. I have run out of time._

            _So have I_ , I thought.

            _What was it I called you all those years ago_?

            _The boy who lived._

 _And so you shall. And so shall you all. This war will end, but more shall come. I will not be here to warn of them. I have never been one given to prophecy, because that is not expected of hats_.

            _You’re not just a hat, though_ , I thought.

            With some satisfaction, the voice said, _No. I am the heart of this place_.

            The Hat erupted into flames, and I startled, but stayed still, because it told me to. I felt magic all around me. I could feel it like a wave. It raised all my hairs. The fire didn’t burn me. It burned the hat, but it was setting something loose. It wasn’t destroying, it was _changing_ something.

            _These are my final words, and this is my testament. So long as your heart is in this place, Neville Longbottom, the walls shall stand. You will forgive the unforgivable. You will be a guardian against the dark. This is the final pronouncement of the Sorting Hat. Long may these walls stand._

            It was burning up, the flames finally licking at my skin.

            The Hat whispered, _Defend these walls…_

            I saw a picture in my mind. And I knew what was coming. It may have been the last thoughts of the Sorting Hat. I saw a sword.

            The Hat fell from my head, and I tore a long, silver sword from its insides. It was light as a feather, and I knew in that moment that I wouldn’t die. I was imbued with something, something indescribable, something larger than myself.

            Before I could think to doubt myself, I saw the snake.

            So I swung the sword and cleaved its head clear from its body and knew these walls would never fall.

 

“It’s funny,” I say. “I thought a lot about what the Hat said, my last year at Hogwarts. We were rebuilding, and it was an incredible time. But things changed so much. We’d spent so long being on edge. Fighting. We were all traumatized, and then things were better. They were so much better. You think that you’ll always be in that space, that mindset of the world ending, but it’s not the case. We were happy—I was happy—and things just went on. What was normal changed. Things were proper normal again. Maybe for the first time in my life. I’d think about what the Hat said to me, wonder what it meant—if I was meant for something—but after awhile I didn’t think about it all that much. The future wasn’t set anymore. We could do what we wanted, be what we wanted. Being able to think about a future beyond the war was liberating. So many people I know, they weren’t able to carry on past that point without some terrible hurt. I’m not saying I’m never sad about the war. I’m sad about it, I’m angry about it. But I don’t feel guilt for surviving. I did my bit. I did everything I could. And when it was over, I was able to move past it, as much as that was possible. That meant I didn’t think about it all the time. I thought about having a career. Getting married. Having children.

            “Besides. It’s not as though I’d be at Hogwarts forever. People don’t stay at Hogwarts. I certainly wasn’t going to. What the Hat said…I thought maybe it was a metaphor. I still don’t know what it means, but back then it was easy to dismiss to some extent. And I wanted to dismiss it. I wanted to get on with my life. A decade I was away from the place. I missed it. I did miss it. It’s the only place that’s ever felt like home. It comes with its drawbacks. I’m not a fool. I know that having one thing means probably not having another. That’s life, is all. Hogwarts stayed at the back of my mind, a place I loved that was a terrible and wonderful memory. But then they asked me to come back to teach, and I thought about what the Hat said. I brushed it off, because I’m not important. I’m just not. It was the end of the war, and I thought I was about to die, and maybe I misheard it. It would make a lot more sense. Only next they asked me to be Head of House, which beggars belief. And beyond that, and I haven’t told a single living soul…McGonagall plans for me to be Headmaster someday. I can’t see it. I can’t see how I get from one point to the other. The thing is, though…people have always underestimated me. They taught me to underestimate myself. Perhaps the Hat did see something in me. Perhaps I’m meant for something. I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.”

            I blow out a breath, gazing at the ceiling. It’s a lot. I can’t even suss it out for myself, and I’m the one it happened to.

            When I look at Baltasar, I blink. He’s gazing at me with an expression I can’t decipher. His blue eyes don’t so much as twitch. He studies me with an intensity that makes me want to squirm.

            “What?” I murmur.

            “Come here,” he says, but before I can move, he’s reached over and set his hand along my jaw. Leaning over, Baltasar kisses my mouth. A long, slow kiss, his hand holding me still. He touches his tongue to my teeth, licking the inside of my lip, breathing what I breathe out.

            When he draws back, I’m dazed. He glances at me, then pushes the blanket off my body. Climbing on top of me, he begins to move downwards.

            “What are you doing?” I ask, as he lays kisses on my skin.

            Baltasar says against my belly, “I want to ride destiny’s dick.”

            Like that, the spell is broken, and I bark out a laugh. Grabbing at him, I say, “Get up here—”

            Baltasar fights against my hands, saying with desperation, “I want destiny _inside_ me—”

            I yank him up, and he lets out a squeal. He immediately whacks me in the nipple, looking embarrassed. He’s not the sort of man that lets people hear him make that kind of noise. “What are you doing?” Baltasar says, scandalized. “Why would you keep me from destiny?”

            “Shut it, you,” I say, half ready to tickle him.

            Baltasar narrows his eyes at me and says, “Maybe destiny should suck my dick.”

            “Maybe it should,” I reply, smirking.

            Baltasar grins, tongue between his teeth, and if my mouth weren’t about to be busy, I’d kiss him blind.

 

I grab Baltasar from behind, wrapping my arms around him and crush him against me. He wheezes, gasping, “Jesus, Neville.” I lean down over his shoulder and kiss him. He has to crane his neck back, but he does to kiss me back. Then Baltasar twists my finger and I yelp, letting him go. He smirks, then bounds down the stairs in front of me.

            With a shake of the head, I follow, checking my buttons. It can’t be all that late, but I’m starved. Of course I am. We’re going to grab a pint before finding dinner somewhere. I’m not picky, I’ll eat what they serve at The Boar’s Head, but Baltasar found a chicken bone in his eggs once and is still holding a grudge about it.

            I clear my throat before following him out into the pub. Respectable distance. There’s five other patrons in the pub, none of them sitting together, all of them hunched over their drinks like they have nothing in their lives but regrets.

            Aberforth stands at the counter, arms crossed. His eyes attempt to drill into mine, but I’m not having it. I feel light as a bloody feather. “Two pints, please,” I say, and Baltasar holds up a backwards V in Aberforth’s direction before dropping down at one of the tables. Smiling, I sit across from him.

            He’s still only wearing his denim jacket. I wonder what he’d do if I bought him a proper one. For Christmas, maybe.

            Christmas. Is that a thing he’ll want to do? He hasn’t said anything about other plans.

            Baltasar catches me looking and says, “What?”

            “I was just thinking. You’re dreadfully handsome.”

            “I like how smooth you get after sex.”

            “Smooth?”

            “Yeah, it’s like once you have the proof that someone will fuck you, you finally get confident.”

            “I’ve plenty of confidence.”     

            “You should. Tell destiny thanks, by the way.”

            Grinning crookedly, I glance up as Aberforth clanks two mugs down. “Thanks, Ab.”

            Baltasar bleats at him, and Aberforth scowls. “To hell with the both of you,” he mutters as he leaves.

            “Don’t ever tell him this,” Baltasar says, voice lowered, “but I can tell he likes me.”

            Picking up my pint, I say, “Of course he does. If he didn’t, he would have poisoned you weeks ago.”

            Baltasar thinks about it, then shrugs. “That’s oddly reassuring.” He sips his beer, and I watch him. I can’t stop myself. I just like to look at him. “Hobbit, what?”

            “Nothing, I just—I’m happy.”

            “Yeah?”

            “I’m really happy.”

            Baltasar ducks his head. “You’re sweet,” he says quietly.

            Scratching the side of my mouth, I tell him what I should say every time I see him. “I’m so glad you’ve stayed.”

            He looks at me from under his brows. “Yeah?”

            “I’m really, really glad.” Baltasar smiles, almost a bit shy, and I furrow my brow. “Why did you?”

            Baltasar shifts, raising his thin shoulders. He thinks about it a moment, thumb digging at a divot on the table. At last, Baltasar says, “Because you’re the most fundamentally decent man I’ve ever known.”

            A smile spreads over my face. It’s one of the kindest things anyone has ever said to me. It’s one of the things I want to be more than anything else in the world. I just want to be a good person. To hear him say it—I don’t know. It means more, I suppose.

            I lay my arm on the table, outstretched to him. “Would you hold my hand?”

            Baltasar pauses, then says into his drink, “The woman by the door is a photographer.”

            I repeat, “Would you hold my hand?”

            He hesitates, then I see that shy smile again. He doesn’t hone in on my face, like usual. Instead, he reaches over, touching my hand. I thread my long, thick fingers through his smaller, skinnier ones, rubbing my thumb over his palm. I study him, his beautiful face, his ridiculous hair, the gaps between his teeth, and I take a moment to appreciate it all. I am so lucky. I never thought I’d have this again.

            I never expected anyone like him.

            Baltasar murmurs, “How long do you want me to stay?”

            “As long as you’ll have me.”

            “What if that’s indefinitely?”

            He looks a touch anxious as he says it, and I understand why. It’s not in his nature to stay still. I don’t ask if he’s sure about it, though. If he wasn’t, he would have never said it. I answer, “I should be so lucky.”

            He bites his lip, so quietly pleased. I see doubt flutter across his face, and for a moment I falter. Baltasar meets my eyes again, and says, “Neville.”

            But then he looks above me, and his face changes entirely.

            I look back, and could roll my eyes. Aberforth is walking over, serious expression on his face. I ignore him. I’m not having it. I’ll hold hands with this man if I want to. He’s not just a fling, someone who was only ever meant to be a memory.

            I think he’s actually my boyfriend.

            “Neville,” Aberforth says from behind me. “May I have a word?”

            “I’m busy,” I say, lifting my drink with my free hand.

            Except he lays a hand on my shoulder. “Son. I need to speak with you.”

            I set down my drink, turning to look at him with concern. He doesn’t just look serious. He looks solemn. He looks grim. Baltasar lets go of my hand, and I glance at him. He nods me on. “It’s cool. Not like I’m going anywhere.”

            Frowning, I get up. Aberforth begins walking away, and I follow him. Right on his heels, I ask, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

            Aberforth leads me past the bar, and into the kitchen. There’s an old witch slouched on a stool next to a bubbling pot, smoking a cigarette. I have never seen her before in my life. “Give us a minute, Ethel,” Aberforth says, turning to face me. With a shrug, the old witch slithers to her feet and goes out the back door.

            Now I am becoming _very_ concerned. “What?”

            Aberforth looks down at his feet instead of my face. His mouth is twisting. Of all the things that can be said about Aberforth, no one has ever claimed he’s hesitant.

            Clearing his throat, Aberforth lifts his head, gazing over my shoulder. “I’ve had a message from the castle. And they had a message from London, and from Poulton-le-Fylde.” I stare at him. He’s telling me words, and I can tell he thinks I should understand, but I don’t. Or do I not want to? Aberforth sighs, and finally looks right at me. “Your father’s died,” Aberforth says.

            I don’t really notice what he’s said. What I notice is the tone of his voice. It’s still gruff. Only it’s gentle. He’s never spoken to me like that before. Not in all the years I’ve known him.

            A few seconds go by, and Aberforth says, “Do you understand, Neville?”

            And I shake my head. “No,” I say.

            No. I don’t understand at all.

            But I do.

            I do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There ends Part Three. The fourth and final part will begin February 10th.


	23. Part Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the final part of the story. I just wanted to say thank you again for the comments and kudos and love. I'm really bad at replying to comments, but I read every single one and cherish them. Now, let's settle in for Part Four. 
> 
>  
> 
> __

I didn’t meet my parents until I was five years old.

            Children aren’t allowed into the Janus Thickey Ward until they’re ten. But Gran, well, try telling her something she doesn’t agree with. It may have taken four years for her to wear down the hospital administration, but she managed it eventually.

            Until that point, I only knew my parents from the portraits that hung at the end of my bed. I knew they would be there when I woke in the morning, and when I fell asleep at night. I knew their faces as well as any other in my life. They were happy, smiling people. Dad, handsome and square jawed. Mum, pretty, cheerful.

            I only knew what I was told. Gran would talk about how they were in hospital because they’d been hurt very badly, but she still spoke about them in the present tense. Not as if their lives had ended that November evening four years prior. It was, “Your father’s always been very clever.” “Your father’s always been quite the athlete.” Sometimes she would add a, “But that’s over now,” only I didn’t comprehend what that meant.

            My other relatives didn’t speak about what my parents were like in the present. Algie had all kinds of stories about trips he and my dad had gone on, how Dad had gotten drunk on stolen firewhiskey when he was sixteen and accidentally burned half the greenhouse down. Whenever I helped Mildred in the garden, she would talk about how sweet my mum was. She’d tell me about Mum and Dad’s wedding, about how excited my parents had been to have me. They all had stories, but the stories stopped at a certain point. I was too young to realize what that really meant.

            In a way, it was as if my parents had been on a long trip. They were away, but when I was old enough I could see them. My mum and dad sounded like grand people. I was so looking forward to meeting them.    

            When I was five, the day came where Gran dressed me up in children’s dress robes. My hair was freshly cut, my shoes were shined, the dirt until my nails spelled away. Gran kept brushing at my clothes, at some flaw I couldn’t see. “You have to behave yourself. You have to be good. You’ll be good for Mummy and Daddy, won’t you?”

            Algie was watching from the kitchen doorway, hands in his pockets. “Augusta,” he said, “maybe this isn’t a good idea.”

            Gran looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “A boy should know his mother and father!” Algie put up his hands in surrender and left us alone.

            We portkeyed down to London, my hand in Gran’s all the way. The plan was to go to St. Mungo’s first, then Diagon Alley after. “If you’re good, we’ll have ice cream,” Gran promised. Algie had told me all about the ice cream at Florian Fortescue’s. To be honest, I didn’t really care. All I wanted was to finally, _finally_ , see my mum and dad.

            I wanted them to touch my hair, to hold me, to smile at me the way they had in their pictures. I knew they were sick, but they were my mum and dad. They would love me.

            All little boys had mummies and daddies who loved them. Save me. And now it was my turn.

            When we stepped onto the ward, there was a young witch in lime green robes waiting for us. She bent down to look at me with a kind smile, hands braced on her thighs. “Hello, Neville, I’m Melody.”

            I shied back, and Gran pushed me forward. “Neville.”

            “Hello Melody,” I recited dutifully.

            “I hear you’re going to be seeing your mummy and daddy today.” I nodded, holding Gran’s hand tighter. Melody said, “I’ve told them all about you coming. They’ve waited a very long time to see you, and I know you’ve waited a long time to see them. I just need to tell you some things before you can meet them, all right?” She crouched down so that she could look up at me. “Your mummy and daddy don’t talk. They’re very quiet. But you can talk to them all you like, and they’ll always keep all your secrets. It’s good if you talk to them. At first, they might seem a little scary—”

            “They are _not_ ,” Gran sniffed, indignant.

            Melody glanced up at her, then smiled at me again. “Just because they don’t talk, or look at you all the time, it doesn’t mean they’re not listening. They love you very, very much. That’s what I want you to remember. They love you so very much.”

            Gran pulled me forward a step, startling me and Melody. “Let’s go, Neville.”

            Truth be told, I was getting nervous. Mum and Dad were sick, I knew that, but why would they be scary? I dragged my feet a little, but Gran kept her usual marching stride, forcing me to keep up with her.

            The closer we got to the curtains at the back, the more anxious I was. We had to walk down an aisle of beds with drawn curtains. I could see shapes moving behind the fabric, moaning, whispering. I looked side to side, eyes wide, fear finally seeping in.

            We came to the end of the aisle, and Gran reached up, pushing the curtain aside.

            The people on the other side were strangers. They were not the people from the end of my bed. They were like pictures of a picture, only warped and wrong. The woman was skinny, unlike the round-faced, smiling woman who was my mother. The man was losing his hair, hunched over with his hands clenched together oddly.

            They didn’t look at us. They didn’t look at each other. They gazed into nothingness, completely disconnected from the world.

            “No,” I said, stumbling back.

            Gran yanked me forward. “ _Neville_. Behave.” I squirmed backwards, using my other hand to try and loose myself from her grip. Gran glared down at me, disbelieving. “Neville! I said stop it.”

            From behind us, a voice said, “He can come sit with me if he’s not—”

            “Excuse me, but you’re intruding. You may leave.” Gran’s hold on me wouldn’t loosen. She squeezed my hand even tighter. “Neville! This is your mother and father. What way is this to behave?”

            “It’s not them,” I gasped.

            “It most certainly is, now stop this—”

            I shook my head violently, feeling tears coming on. “No. No no no.”

            Gran let out a put-upon side and pulled me forward. My feet slid against the linoleum, and I couldn’t find purchase. I was dragged along with her. She pulled me towards my father, saying, “Neville, this is Daddy. Frank, I know you’ve been waiting to see Neville.”

            I looked frantically at the stranger on the bed. He hunched his shoulders, pulling his hands closer to his chest.

            “What do you have, Frank?” Gran asked. She reached out, jostling his clenched hands. “Frank, what do you have in your hands? Let me see.”

            The stranger did nothing for a moment. Then he opened his hands and tilted them for us to see.

            Spiders. It seemed like dozens. All of them crushed, legs going every which way. He must have been collecting them for weeks. But the first time I met my father, he had handfuls of spiders.

            I screamed at the top of my lungs and finally broke away. I ran. I didn’t know where I was going, I only knew that I had to get away from the man with the spiders.

            The pretty nurse in the green robes caught me and swept me up into her arms. She rocked me as I screamed and sobbed, unable to get a word out because I was so terrified. I could hear my gran saying, “Give them to me—Frank, give them to me.”

            Needless to say, I did not get ice cream.

 

I wish I could think of something else. At the funeral, people had stories about my father. What a good man he was, what a brave man he was. They had some really great stories. But the stories were over thirty years old.

            I’m standing at his graveside, and all I can think of are spiders.

            Not many people visited my parents. The vast majority of people here, I doubt they’d seen my father since he was in his twenties. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad they’re here. I know it was hard for people to see my parents how they were in the hospital, and I certainly didn’t visit as often as I should have the past few years. But most of these people stopped thinking of my parents in the present tense in 1981.

            It’s a good turn out. The hall was packed, and it sounds like a large number of them will be at the house for the reception after. Right now it’s just friends and family. Not much of the family is left, of course, but that’s not what really matters.

            I look across the grave to Ron and Hermione. All the Weasleys except Ginny are standing there in their best black robes. Ron is holding Hugo in his arms, and Hermione has her hands on Rose’s shoulders. Rosie is old enough to be a little frightened. It’s Hugo I can’t help but look at.

            I was about his age when I lost my parents. I think of Ron and Hermione in those hospital beds, staring and vacant, and Hugo running around between them, his usual happy self.

            It’s a nightmare. I turn my eyes from them and glance at Mum instead.

            She’s standing between Gran and I. I’ve never seen my mum outside the hospital before. She’s in new robes, and Molly brushed her hair, and Gran is holding onto her hand. Mum just looks up at the sky, eyes hazy.

            Gran is staring at the casket. It hovers above the hole in the ground. There are alicitheum scattered over the top. That was my doing. I charmed them so they wouldn’t speak. It might be awkward to have the flowers reciting back everything said right now.

            My father is in that wooden box. I still don’t know how I feel about that.

            I haven’t cried. I haven’t felt much of anything in the last few days, to be completely honest. I had a list of things to get through, and that’s what I’ve focused on. I went to London to get the body, and brought Dad back to Poulton-le-Fylde. I stayed in my old room while Dad’s body was in the front room under a blanket. I helped wash him. I chose the robes he would be buried in. Gran and I sat together with the woman from the funeral home and went over the details of the service. I chose the headstone, the one that’s waiting under a blanket. The plot was already bought and paid for; Longbottoms have been buried in this cemetery for a thousand years.

            Algie used to say, “We were buried here back when we were known as the Longarses.”

            I bite into my mouth, trying not to smile at the memory. Algie’s buried three graves down from this one. I planted some biting peonies there last spring, and they’re going strong, even in the winter. They just took quite the chunk out of a reporter’s ankle when he came out here last night to get a picture of the gravesite. Serves him right, the fucking vulture.

            I need to focus. The undertaker is saying some words, a poem that Dad apparently loved. I didn’t speak at the funeral. Gran is upset with me for that, but I couldn’t justify it to myself. I didn’t know my father. It didn’t seem right for me to eulogize him.

            The Minister for Magic did that, so Dad came out all right.

            They all have these memories. I have memories as well. I remember spiders and drool and the times I sat there and begged him to speak to me. I have the potions I poured into his mouth in the hopes that I would revive him, even the smallest piece. I have failure. I have silence.

            I have thirty years of silence.

            We’re coming to the end. The poem will finish, the casket will lower, the dirt will lift and drop, covering the grave, the headstone will be set in the ground, and then we’ll go. We’ll go back to the house, and people will tell me what a great man my father was. I’ll have a few drinks, but not enough to make a difference, and I’ll spend one more night in my own bed before going back north.

            Then I’ll just carry on.

            On cue, the undertaker finishes the poem, then gives a discreet nod to her assistant. He lowers his wand, and the casket slowly descends into the ground. He’s quite the light touch with that. I imagine it must be quite startling for people if their loved one’s coffin were to just drop six feet down with a thud.

            I wonder how long the casket will last. I’m thinking about the spiders, is all. It wasn’t the only time I ever saw Dad with bugs in his hands. The first ten years I visited him, he’d often have dead insects secreted away. It stopped eventually, but I don’t know why. I don’t know why he did it. Did he like spiders? Hate them? Would it make him happy, knowing there were insects in the coffin with him?

            For fuck’s sake, Neville, what are you even thinking?

            The pile of dirt lifts up, then drifts elegantly down on top the casket. The assistant really is good at this.

            Across the grave, I can see Rosie flinching. I wonder if this is the first time she really understands that mummies and daddies can die. I try to give her a smile, but she’s not looking at me.

            The grave fills in, and the head stone goes up. The tension dissipates, and everyone immediately breaks away.

            I go to the undertaker, shaking her hand. “Lovely service,” I say, even though I couldn’t tell you a single word she said. “Beautifully done.”

            “Alice?” I hear Gran say, and I turn around.

            Gran has hold of Mum’s arm. Mum is reaching down towards the grave, straining. Gran and Mum are about the same size and weight, though, so they’re pretty equally matched. Mum’s face is blank, but I can tell that she’s about to pull Gran off her feet.

            I quickly go back to them. Slipping an arm around Mum’s back, I say, “Come on, Mum. Let’s go back to the house.” She wheezes, reaching for the grave, and I turn her away from it. “Come on, Mum.”

            I put a firm arm around her shoulder and lead her away.

 

I stay next to Mum for awhile. She’s sitting on a chair against the wall, and I stand next to her. People come along to offer their condolences, and I shake their hands and smile politely and listen to the anecdotes they want to share about Dad. Plenty are people who I’ve never spoken to before. Most of them are awkward with Mum. They either ignore her entirely or seem embarrassed when they speak to her or are overly warm, talking to her like she’s a child. I’m not irritated by it. If I was in their position, I wouldn’t know what the right thing to do was either.

            Molly joins us after fussing over the food, making sure everyone has more than enough. She brings me a plate. “I’ll sit with Alice a bit,” she says, pushing the plate into my hands. “Give you a break.”

            It honestly doesn’t matter to me either way, but Molly’s being kind and I’ll do whatever she wants me to. “Did you get something to eat?” I ask, picking up the fork.

            “Oh, I’m fine.” Dismayed, Molly says, “I tried to leave another message for Ginny—”

            “It’s fine,” I assure her. “I told you, don’t ruin her holiday.”

            “She’ll be sick when she finds out, Nev—”

            “I’m okay.” Molly doesn’t look convinced, so I say, “Molly, what will make me happy is knowing that everyone is living life to the best of their ability. To be honest, I’d rather have Ginny rafting in the Amazon than sitting here sad with the rest of us. Now. Have you seen my grandmother?”

            “Not in a few minutes. I tried to speak to her, but…”

            “She’s being her usual charming self.”

            “Neville. She just lost her son.”

            “I know. I know. Sorry, I’m tired.”

            “No, I—” Molly lets out a sigh, and smiles for me. She runs a hand over my arm. “You look so good these days.”

            “Yeah, I’ve really grown into these dashing good looks.”

            “That must be it.” Molly hesitates, then says, “What about this new fellow you’re seeing?”

            The last place I want to be discussing Baltasar with Molly Weasley is at my father’s funeral reception. “Oh, it’s…going all right.”

            “The papers are making a dreadful fuss about what a mystery he is.”

            “I thought you cancelled your subscription to _The Prophet_.”

            “I did. You know, sometimes copies are just lying around here and there.”

            “It’s going fine.”

            “When will you be bringing him around for dinner?”

            When hell freezes over, most likely. “I, uh…don’t know about that.”

            “I know it’s not exactly normal, but we can’t help but be curious about—”

            “Arthur looks cross about something,” I say, desperate to escape this conversation. Arthur’s across the room, looking very displeased with Maxwell Moray, head of the Parks Department. “I should probably look into that. Excuse me, Molly.”

            I put the plate back into her hands and get away from her as quickly as possible.

            I have to avoid a few well meaning people who look like they want my attention. Arthur is turning red, speaking through gritted teeth. Moray looks like he wants to disappear into the ground. If Arthur is tearing a strip off someone, it must be something terrible.

            When Moray sees me, he looks both relieved and terrified. “Mr. Longbottom.”

            Arthur shuts his mouth. I half expect steam to rise from his head. “Mr. Moray,” I say. “Everything all right here?”

            “I was just—I was telling Mr. Weasley here that—”

            “He has a park that needs naming,” Arthur spits out.

            I wait a moment. “Oh.”

            Blushing, Moray continues, “It’s a very lovely place, not too far from Blackpool.”          

            “The Vane Park,” Arthur snaps.

            Raising my brows, I say, “The Death Eater Park?”

            Moray rushes to say, “No—well—”

            “Thirty years, Maxwell,” Arthur says, seeming to get taller as Moray shrinks. “Thirty years you’ve had to take that Death Eater’s name off the park, but you didn’t because he left his estate to your department, and now— _now_ —you finally decide it’s time to stick Frank’s name on something. Bad enough to leave Vane’s name on it all these years, but where have you been? All this time? Better that they only remember Frank once he’s dead, is that it? Wouldn’t want people to think about him sitting in the hospital. After all he sacrificed, and now you—”

            It seems like Arthur is about to surge forward, so I clap one hand to his back and one to his chest, effectively pinning him in place. Squeezing, so that he understands I need him to calm down, I say to Moray, “We would, of course, be honoured to have my father’s name taken into consideration for something like this. It would be nice to have my father remembered. We should discuss this at another time, don’t you think?”

            “Yes,” Moray is quick to reply. “Yes, that seems like an excellent idea. Excuse me. My condolences, Mr. Longbottom.” He scurries off, heading straight for the alcohol.

            I turn to Arthur. Abashed, he avoids my eyes. It takes him several seconds, but Arthur says, “Sorry, Nev. He just…it got under my skin. I didn’t mean to make a scene. I’m so sorry.”

            “It’s all right. We just don’t need the grandkids seeing you punching someone.” I jostle his shoulder a bit. “Why don’t you do see what George is up to? He’s probably seducing someone’s daughter or something. Go keep an eye on him.”

            Arthur nods, and walks off. I take a deep breath, sticking my hands in my pockets.

            Of course, another man I don’t know comes up and says, “Excuse me. I just wanted to tell you, I knew your dad in school. One of the best chess players I ever met.” He leans forward and says meaningfully, “He could have gone pro.”

 

When I finally make my way over to Ron and Hermione, Hugo comes running up to me. He’s somehow managed to get half his shirt off. Picking him up, I say, “Come here, you little nudist.” I roll him over in my arms, blowing a raspberry on his belly.

            Ron has a nearly empty glass. “How’re you doing, mate?”

            “I’m fine. Rosie girl. Are you all right?”

            She nods, mouth closed and eyes wide. Hermione bounces her a little on her knee, arms wrapped around her daughter. “I’ve never heard you be this quiet before, sweetheart.” Rose doesn’t reply to that.

            “Your dad was half ready to have fisticuffs with the Minister of the Parks Department,” I tell Ron.

            “Whatever for?”

            “Apparently they want to stick my dad’s name on a park.”

            Ron waits, as if anticipating a punchline, then shakes his head. “Is my dad mental?”

            “Ron,” Hermione hisses.

            Ron glances between us both, then pales. “Oh—shit. Nev, I didn’t mean—”

            “It’s fine.” I hold Hugo up above my head, making him giggle. I smile up at his happy face. He has no clue what’s happening. Good for him. “I needed to see your face, young man.” I give him a little shake, then hug him.

            “Up up,” Hugo says, so I lift him up high again.

            “How are you two doing?” I ask. “Beyond being at a funeral and all.”

            “We’re well,” Hermione says. “We’re doing really well.”

            Ron puts a hand on my shoulder. “We miss you, mate.”

            “School’s been a bit much,” I say. “A Carrow blew up my greenhouse, a Brult tried to Crucio me. Teddy Lupin is crawling through the walls like an inch worm. The MA is trying to infiltrate Hogwarts. You know, the usual drama.”

            “That’s not all, eh?”

            “What?”

            Ron wiggles his brows at me. “What about this mystery man?”

            “Oh for—” I toss Hugo up, catching him as he shrieks. “There’s no mystery. It’s fine.”

            “When are you bringing him around for dinner?”

            Looking at him in disbelief, I say, “Between you and your mother.”

            “Molly wants him to come for dinner?” Hermione says, flabbergasted.

            “I know. I’m not sure if it’s genuine or if she’s just bending over backwards because my father died.”

            “Mum does worry about you,” Ron says.

            “I’m not bringing my boyfriend to my ex-mother-in-law’s house.”

            “So he’s your boyfriend?” Hermione prompts.

            Sighing, I say, “I really don’t want to get into it right now.”

            “That’s fine,” Ron says, “but if he’s your boyfriend, you have to bring him by for dinner. We have to vet him.”

            “Again, I’m not bringing him to my ex-brother-in-law’s house—”

            “You’re not, you’re bringing him to your best friends’ house. Is he doing anything for Christmas? You know Ginny’s bringing her fling with her, so you might as well bring yours and just make it as incredibly awkward as possible.”

            “When hell actually freezes over,” I promise. “Listen—I need a favour from you both.”

            They’re immediately attentive. “Anything,” Hermione says.

            “Anything at all,” Ron says.

            “Call Harry,” I say, and they flinch. I look between them and shrug. “It’s my father’s funeral. You have to do it. All I want is for you to fire call him and stop being ridiculous. The lot of you. I’ve already spoken to him about it, and if you don’t call him, he’s going to call you. I’m sick of this. Life is short. Young parents don’t always get a lot of years. So just get over it.”

            I give Hugo a few big, wet kisses to the forehead, and he giggles, trying to bat away my face.

            “Of course, Nev,” Ron says.

            “When we get home,” Hermione adds.

            I nod, and Ron says, “He wasn’t able to come out?”

            “I told him not to,” I answer. “It would have been a circus with the press. Harry Potter coming back to England after running off with Draco Malfoy. I just wanted today to be about Dad. Harry understood. But you’ll call him. You promise?”

            “We promise,” Hermione says.

            “Up,” Hugo says. “Up!”

            So up he goes.

 

People are starting to clear out. I shake more hands, I smile, I listen to strangers tell me what a good man Dad was.

            After awhile, I start to wonder: where the hell is Gran?

            She was down here for a bit at the beginning, but I haven’t seen her in at least an hour. I would have thought she’d be in the middle of everything, presiding over the whole affair. She’s been the keeper of my father’s memory for three decades. Having dozens of people in her house, commemorating Frank Longbottom? This should be one of the best moments of her life.

            I’m being harsh. I can’t help it. It’s what she taught me, and it seems dishonest to be any other way when we’re dealing with something that’s inevitable.

            I excuse myself from the reception and head upstairs. Where on earth is she?

            I pass my room. The door is closed. It is locked, because this wouldn’t be the first funeral I’ve attended where George Weasley shagged a mourner. Gran’s room, at the end of the hall, is open a crack.

            I’m halfway there when I hear crying.

            It takes me a moment to unstick myself. It’s a dry, steady, heartbroken thing. I have never, not once in my life, hard my grandmother weep. Hesitantly, I walk silently to the end of the hallway. Putting my hand to the door, I push it slightly so that I can see inside.

            Gran is curled up on the bed. She has her head in McGonagall’s lap, and a handkerchief clenched in one hand. She’s sobbing with her eyes closed, sobs that come from the gut, that make her whole body jerk.

            I can only stare. I am looking at something I should never see.

            McGonagall raises her eyes and looks at me. Swallowing, I don’t do anything for a moment. But I know I have to do something. So I reach out, and gently shut the door.

 

Dropping onto my bed with a grunt, I let my arms fall above my head. It’s late afternoon, and nearly everyone has gone. Molly and Arthur, Ron and Hermione and the kids, McGonagall, they’re all still here. Molly will make dinner.

            Mum’s here too. The people from St. Mungo’s will come get her in an hour or two.

            I needed a break. Actually, no, I didn’t. Molly said to me, “Why don’t you go sit for a little while, Nev? We’ll clean all this up.” I’d tried to argue, but Molly seemed to think I should have some time to myself. So here I am. Lying in my childhood bed.

            I didn’t know him. I have all these stories about who my father was, but that’s not the man I knew. He wasn’t there. He was a shade. He’s been dead thirty years; we were just late in having the service.

            I shouldn’t be thinking like this. I don’t know how I should be thinking. I should be sad, at least. But it’s like it’s all stopped up inside. I’m doing what I’m supposed to, on the outside, at least. I just need to be what the others want right now. Soon enough, I can go back home and return to my life.

            I’ll go back to normal. My kids, and my experiments, and my work, and Baltasar. I don’t know what I’ll say to him. How I’ll act with him. He’s the person who’s closest to me right now, but I don’t know what he’ll think of me if he finds out how little I feel about this whole thing.

            Take him to dinner with Molly and Arthur. Good heavens.

            I don’t even like the thought of him meeting Ron and Hermione. I don’t know what it is. It’s as if he’s separate from my life. There is what people expect from me, and then there’s him. He’s a possibility. He’s what life could be if I chose to do it differently.

            I just want to keep him all to myself.

            Rubbing my hands over my face, I tell myself that I only have to get through a few more hours. I’ll stay here overnight to…I don’t know what. But it’s what I’ll do, and then I’ll go home tomorrow.

            Of course Gran cried. She lost her son. She lost him so many times. She’s tough, she’s tough as nails, but she remembers him before the ‘he was such a good man’ stories. She remembers a baby. She remembers a little boy running around, nothing but opportunity before him.

            I need to be kind to her. Maybe my childhood wasn’t great, but it could have been worse. She’s my gran, and I love her.

            I love all of them, even if I don’t know what I should be feeling right now.

           

I’ve been lying here for all of ten minutes when a voice shouts, “Neville!”

            Oh, what now?

            I roll off the bed, straightening my robes. I can hear yelling. It sounds like Gran is upset about something. It’s Molly that called for me, though. There’s a whole chorus of voices.

            I could just apparate away from here. Leave them to it.

            No. Be an adult.

            Leaving the room, I bound back down the stairs and into quite the scene. Ron is holding Rosie in his arms, and she’s crying. Arthur has Hugo, who’s crying too. Gran is yelling at Molly, and McGonagall is between them, holding Gran back.

            “How could you bloody _lose_ her?” Gran shouts. “One single job you had, Molly Weasley, one job, and you were too busy organizing the leftovers!”

            “What’s going on?” I ask.

            Jabbing a bony finger at Molly, Gran says, “She lost your mother!”

            “What?!” I yelp.

            Molly says, “We were all—we were distracted—Rosie started crying, and then Hugo started crying—I took my eyes off her for a minute, that’s all—oh, Neville, I’m so sorry—”

            She looks on the verge of tears herself, so I say, “It’s okay, Molly.”

            “It’s not _okay_ ,” Gran shouts. “She hasn’t been on her own in thirty years! She hasn’t left the hospital in thirty years, and now she’s—”

            “Has anyone actually looked for her?” I ask. Everyone freezes for a moment, and I roll my eyes. “Oh, for—”

            I leave them there, and go running out the front door.

            I can’t see her. There’s just snow and trees. Putting my hands to my mouth, I shout, “Mum!”

            Molly emerges from behind me, hollering, “Alice!”

            “Molly, go put on a coat—Mum! Mum, can you hear me?”

            I run down the front path, heart starting to pound. Mum wouldn’t know to dress for the weather. She just wandered out. And I love Molly, I love her to death, but I know that when people say they looked away for a minute, they really mean two minutes, or five.

            The others are starting to yell for Mum, but I try to think. It’s easy to say that Mum wouldn’t know where she was going, but she left the house. She wouldn’t have gone into the cold for no reason, when it was going dark. Or maybe she would, I don’t know.

            If she had a reason, where would she—

            “Oh,” I say.

            I apparate.

            It was certainly not a minute, but more like five or ten, because when I crack back into reality outside the cemetery, I find Mum hunched over Dad’s grave. She’s filthy up to her arms, hands clawing into the dirt.

            “Mum!” I yell, and jog past the gates.

            She pays me no mind. She’s doing something—what is she—

            My stomach drops, and I shout, “Mum!”

            She takes massive handfuls of gravedirt and stuffs it in her mouth.

            I grab her under the armpits, dragging her back from the grave a few steps. She manages to get one more handful, shoving it past her teeth. Dropping behind her, I hook a leg around her to keep her tethered, because she’s straining to get back to the grave. I put a hand to her jaw, forcing her mouth open, and start digging dirt out with my fingers.

            “Spit it out, Mum,” I say. She’s stuffed so much in there that she can’t swallow. She’s going to choke. “Spit it out. Come on, Mum. Spit it out.”

            She does start to choke. I push her forward and use the butt of my hand to strike her in the back. Same way you would a baby. Mum makes a strangled noise. I did this with Hugo when he was eleven months old and he was just fine, so I’m not worried now. I can’t worry.

            “Come on, Mum,” I say, and hit her as hard as I dare.

            She coughs, and a mass of dirt comes shooting out of her mouth. I push her further forward, so she’s face first over the ground. I let gravity take care of the work. I rub Mum’s back as she coughs out dirt and spit.

            “Good girl,” I say, kissing the back of her neck.

            She raises her head and reaches towards the grave.

            “No, Mum,” I say, wrapping my arms around her and pulling her into my lap. She fights bonelessly against my grip. I keep her tight against my body as she squirms, reaching for the dirt. “It’s okay, Mum. You’re okay.”

            Chills break out all over my body as she begins to moan. It doesn’t sound human. It doesn’t sound of this earth. It rises out of her, like something calling from another world.

            It’s the sound of a ghost that doesn’t realize it’s died.

           

I walk into The Boar’s Head an hour later. I still have my suitcase. I apparated up here from Lancashire. It took a few stops, but the second they picked up Mum, I was out the door. I don’t know what happened. I just said, “I’m going,” and I did before anyone could stop me.

            Aberforth looks at me in surprise as I walk across the pub. “I thought you were…”

            He trails off as I pass by him without looking up. I go right to the stairs and head up.

            I’m in a fog. I have no reason. I have no motive. I’m not entirely sure why I came here, other than it seemed like the only thing I could possibly do.

            I get to the third floor and walk down the hall. I look down at the suitcase in my hand. I don’t really need it right now. So I take out my wand and shrink it down. Then I put it in my pocket and rap on the door in front of me with my free hand.

            I’m putting my wand away as the door swings open. Baltasar looks up at me, confused for a moment. He’s in his pajamas. Threadbare trousers and a shirt I’ve never seen, with a circle on it, divided into quarters, each a different colour.

            I burst into tears.

            It’s so sudden. One moment I am dazed, and the next I am a flood. Baltasar grabs me by my clothes and pulls me inside, slamming the door behind me, but I don’t care who sees me. I don’t know what I care about—

            My father is dead. My father is finally dead and I will never ever know him.

            I stumble, and Baltasar catches me. He doesn’t say anything. He’s so much smaller than I am, and he has to struggle to keep me upright, and I know I should be brave, I should stand up straight, but I can’t make my legs do that. I falter and I fall, and he doesn’t let go of me for a single second.

            I sob, grabbing onto him to try and brace myself, but there is nothing that can stop this. I wail, frightening myself. I’ve never made a sound like that before. It doesn’t sound like me at all. But I make the same noise again.

            Baltasar is on the ground with me. He uses all his strength to pull me close. I’m half on the floor, half on him, and he rocks me like that. He doesn’t say anything, he just lets me weep. He pulls my hair back from my face so I won’t choke on it, and his kindness breaks my heart.

            It makes me cry even harder. I howl like a wounded beast. I howl for myself, and my father, and my mother.

            I weep for lost things.


	24. Chapter 24

This is one of my favourite things to do in the world. I have a book, and Baltasar has a book. We’re sitting in bed together, him nestled up to my side, my arm draped over his shoulder. Occasionally I’ll kiss the top of his head, or he’ll leave a hand on the inside of my thigh. We can be quiet together. I need someone that I can be quiet with.

            He has been my safe place these few weeks. I keep myself going through classes, but I spend my nights with him. Baltasar hasn’t said anything about it, but at this point he assumes we’ll see one another every day, as do I, and we owl one another if anything comes up. I’d never want him to feel forgotten, not for a moment.

            We spend most of our time together in the little cottage he fixed up. It’s not too far from Hogwarts, actually, but Baltasar has warded it so strongly that not even I can see it until I’m within throwing distance of the building. I’ll walk here at the end of the day, needing that time to decompress.

            We need to take a break from Hogsmeade. For my sake and his. I’ll admit, I did like going out in Hogsmeade with Baltasar for those few days. He would immediately take my hand, or I’d take his, and I would ignore anyone who looked at us while Baltasar would glare at them. He took very easily to the role of bodyguard. Maybe a little too much, which is how we ended up having to avoid Hogsmeade for a stretch. We were just going for a walk through some of the houses when a photographer jumped out right in front of us. The flash blinded me, he was so close, and I couldn’t react. But the next thing I heard was a crash, and when I blinked, the camera was destroyed, lying in the snow. The photographer was screaming at Baltasar for wrecking his camera, and Baltasar just snapped, “Prove it.” I had to literally pick him up and carry him away when he and the photographer seemed about to trade blows.

            We have our quiet place in the cottage, and we went to the Christmas fair together the other weekend, and we go to Muggle villages when we feel like it. Right now, he’s honestly the only person I want to be around when my day is done.

            I come to the last page of my book and close it with a sigh. Baltasar glances over. “Was it good?”

            “Mm. Biography of a seventeenth century Greek herbologist.”

            He casts me a dubious look and pats my leg. “Whatever gets you hard, hobbit.”

            I snort, hooking my arm around his neck to pull him closer. “How’s yours?”

            “I’ve come to a conclusion. Harry Houdini was actually a wizard.”

            “Who’s Harry Houdini?”

            “Oh my God. I can’t believe I let you touch me in a sex way, and you don’t know who Houdini is.”

            “Come on. Who is he?”

            “Only the most famous magician of all time.”

            “Like Muggle magics.”

            “Yeah, but I think he was an actual wizard. Only I think he was a squib.”

            “Mm.”

            “You’re not interested at all, are you.”

            “Of course I am.”

            “You are not.”

            “It doesn’t matter. You listen to me go on endlessly about plants, and I know you don’t give a shit about plants. You can tell me all about your interests. I’d listen.”

            Baltasar closes his book. “Nah. I’ll save it for more appreciative audiences.” I roll my eyes at him, and he lays his head back to look up at me. “What are we doing today?”

            I inhale through my nose. “I have to go down to Lancashire for a few hours.”

            “You have to, or is there literally anything else we could do?”

            “Gran owled. Apparently she has some things of Dad’s she wants to give me.”

            “Okay.” A moment passes, then Baltasar says, “I’m _not_ offering to go with you. I know you’d tell me no, and besides, your grandmother would probably cut my throat.”

            “True enough.”

            “But I will, you know. If you want me to just wait at the end of the driveway or something.”

            “No.” I kiss his forehead. “No, I’m not going to put you through that. I’d rather not have you see the insanity I come from. I like coming back here to you.”

            “I’ll be here.”

            I stroke my thumb over Baltasar’s collarbone and ask, “What are you doing for Christmas?”

            He shrugs. “I dunno. What’s Aberforth doing? Maybe I’ll crash whatever he has going on with the goats. You’re gonna go see your ex, right?”

            Blushing, I say, “No. Well…I mean…”

            “You’re gonna spend Christmas with your ex while I’m here with the goat fucker. Classy, Neville.”

            “No, I just…I’ve always spent Christmas with the Weasleys. But I’ve been thinking…maybe I’ll stay here for Christmas. I was going to anyways, just head down to the Burrow for dinner. I could stay here, though. With the rest of the faculty, the kids who don’t have places to go to.”

            He surprises me when he says, “I really wish you would.”

            “Yeah?”

            Baltasar shrugs again. “I don’t care about Christmas, but I kind of like the idea of spending time with you and not sharing you with school for awhile. I like it a hell of a lot more than you spending Christmas with your attractive, rich ex girlfriend.”

            “Jealous, are we?”

            “Fuck off.”

            “You are, aren’t you?”

            “No,” he mutters. I lift my hand over his side, and Baltasar points a finger at my face. “If you tickle me, Longbottom, I swear to God.” I surrender, and he settles back in with a suspicious look. Resting his head on my shoulder, Baltasar says, “You’ll stay?”

            “Yeah,” I say. “I’ll stay.”

 

I wish I’d stayed in bed.

            “We’re having oolong,” Gran says, carrying out the tray.

            “We always have oolong, Gran,” I reply quietly.

            She sets down the tray and looks over at me. I’m standing by the row of stuffed cats. “Are you planning on just running through again? Dinner at the Weasleys?”

            “No, I don’t have any other plans.”

            With a harrumph, Gran picks up the teapot. “I suppose I should be honoured.” I take a deep breath and go sit in my usual chair. There’s a box sitting next to it, carefully labelled _Frank’s Things for Neville_. Gran brings me my tea, making a low noise when I thank her. She’s slow walking back to the sofa. Not for the first time, I worry about her being alone in this house. I know she’ll never leave. She’ll die in this house. Merlin save the witch or wizard who tries to force her out beforehand. Gran lifts the teacup and takes a long sip from it.

            I sip from my own. Blimey, it’s terrible. So strong I can feel it on the back of my throat long before I swallow. I gulp it down, then set aside the saucer.

            “How have you been?”

            “Fine,” Gran says. “Yourself?”

            “I’ve been well. Looking forward to the holidays.”

            I’m not sure if she’s going to invite me or not. I’ll usually come by Christmas Eve, but I didn’t last year. We got into it over Ginny again, and she made it quite clear I’d be blasted from my boots if I tried to cross the threshold.

            “You’ll be spending it with that man from the papers,” Gran says acidly.

            “May do.” Not wanting to fight, I nod down to the box. “What’s in here, then?”

            Gran shakes her head. “I don’t know. It’s been in the attic for years. I went through to clear some things out. Donate them to people who need it. If you don’t want it, it can be thrown away.”

            “I want it.” I reach down, touching the box. “Just trinkets, or—?”

            “I told you that I don’t know, Neville.”

            “All right. You saw Mum last week?”

            “Of course I did. She’s family. I don’t suppose you did.”

            “Gran—school lets out in a few days, I’m up to my eyeballs—”

            “Yes, always a reason.”

            I try and remember the woman crying in her room from a broken heart. Gran’s sharp edges, but she’s still my gran. She’s grieving. “How’s the social calendar?”

            “Are you laughing at me?”

            “What? No.”

            “The doddering woman all alone in her house. What a laugh.”

            “Gran, I’m not—last time I was here, you said you had a full social calendar. I’m trying to make conversation.”

            “Conversation,” she scoffs.

            “Fine. What do you want to talk about?”

            Gran swirls tea around her cup. I wait, wondering if she even knows what she wants me to say. Whatever it is, she’ll cut me down for it. I wish I knew if this was always who she was, or if she started somewhere else. If it’s the years that made her bitter.

            Gran says, “I want you to tell me…that things will return to normal.”

            “Beg pardon?”

            “Regardless of my opinions about Ginevra, it was quite a feather in the cap of the Longbottom family name to have one of our own teach at Hogwarts. To even be Head of House. To perhaps one day be more, if Minerva is to be believed. But right now…not only are you squandering that opportunity, you are humiliating us. Your mother, your father. Yourself. Me.”

            Dropping my head, I try and remember—she is grieving. Take it easy on her. “Gran, my personal life has no bearing on—”

            “Oh don’t be so naïve.” That’s what McGonagall told me, and it still makes my skin crawl. Gran says, “If you want to have some dalliance here and there, it’s no one’s concern. But this is in _The Prophet_ , Neville. Everyone knows. You haven’t even made an effort to hide it.”

            “I shouldn’t have to.”

            “Stop being foolish.”

            “Why should I hide it? What, because I’m a Hogwarts professor, I should have no life of my own? Is it that he’s a man? Is it that he’s not pureblood? What is it that sets you off about this?”

            “You’re being obtuse. It’s how it looks—”

            “It looks like I’m happy. Why can’t I be happy?”

            “Happy? What has happiness to do with any of it?” Gran sets down her cup and saucer. “Do you think I’ve lived a happy life? Do you think I wanted to spend all those years acting as nurse maid to every member of this family? My husband, my son, my grandson, my daughter-in-law. Do you think it made me happy to give my whole life to taking care of people who couldn’t take care of themselves? Happiness has nothing to do with it. I did what I had to, to protect everyone, to protect this family. It was a good life.”

            “You didn’t have to do it alone.”

            “Who else was there?” she snaps.

            “Your friends. The other members of the Order. Algie and Mildred, they would have done more if—”

            “It was _my_ responsibility! And Algie—he didn’t have the sense of a buttered scone. He was a fool, and you’ve always been too eager to take after him.”

            Exhaling, I say, “Gran. I’m sorry you’re unhappy—”

            “I’m not unhappy! I told you, it has nothing to do with happy!”

            “Then what’s it to do with?”

            “Keeping this family proud! Making damned sure that when people thought of this family, they didn’t think of grown up nappies. So that they didn’t pity us! So that they wouldn’t dare whisper behind our backs.”

            “Who cares if they did?”

            “Because it’s not right!”

            “Who cares what they think? Gran, this is—what’s this to do with anything?”

            “It’s because you’re embarrassing us! What you do reflects on us—on them. You’ve never cared the way you should, but to do this to your father—even after he’s dead—”

            I put my hands up. “You know what? I don’t want to get into this with you.”

            “Oh, of course not. Always about what you want, never them—”

            “What _them_?” I say in exasperation. “They were shells! All these years—I never knew them. I never knew Dad, I never knew Mum. All I got was what was left behind after they were emptied. There wasn’t enough _them_ left to be ashamed. If you want to be upset with me, you do as you please, but Mum and Dad would never care about any of this. They can’t care. They haven’t been capable of caring in thirty years.”

            “That’s easier for you, isn’t it. Acting like they were lost causes—”

            “They were.”

            “How dare you—”

            “It doesn’t mean I didn’t love them. I loved them, but there was nothing else that could be done for them—”

            “You never tried!”

            “I tried!” I cry out. “All those years—every night, every spare minute, researching, experimenting, thinking, trying to come up with some way to bring them out of it. I tried everything I could, spoke to every potion master I could find, read every single herbology text I could find, spoke to healers, I tried and tried and tried but nothing worked. You know all about it, I told you. How can you say I didn’t try?”

            “Your father would have figured it out. You were just never clever enough.”

            I drop back in my chair, rubbing my face. “Here we go. Back to this again. Dad was perfect, he was so clever and bright, a million times better than I ever was, is that it?”

            “It’s the truth.”

            “Then why was he in that hospital? If he was so clever? How is that he lost his mind after one night? Tell me how clever he was, Gran. Go ahead and tell me.”

            Jaw falling open, Gran just goggles at me a moment. “You shut your mouth. He was ten times the man you are—”

            “The hell he was. I fought a war, I was Crucio’d as a child, over and over, I faced the Dark Lord, and I didn’t fall. I’m stronger than he ever was, and that drives you barmy, doesn’t it. Even with all the effort you put into making me feel like I was worthless, that I’d never measure up, I accomplished more as a teenage than your son could as a grown man.”

            “Get out of this house,” Gran whispers. She gets abruptly to her feet, pointing at the front door. “Get out! You ungrateful—how dare you! How dare you!”

            I shake my head, unimpressed. I pick up the box and get up. “Do you know what? I don’t believe you for a second when you say you weren’t happy. You loved it. You loved every second you got to fuss and act so bloody aggrieved all the time. We were all weak so that you could pretend you were strong. If Dad had never been in the hospital, you would have hated him as much as you do me.”

            “You are nothing like him.”

            “No,” I say, “I’m nothing like you. Thank Merlin for small favours.”

            I walk past her, and Gran follows me, shouting. I half expect her to throw things at me. “Don’t ever come back here! You’re not welcome in this house! Not until you apologize—”

            Reaching the front door, I say, “Bye, house.”

            I slam the door behind me, cutting off my grandmother in mid shriek.

 

I’m waiting for the train to pull into the station when an owl comes swooping down from the sky. Thank heavens it’s not busy. There’s one man further down the track who stares as the owl perches on my shoulder. Blushing, I reach up and pull the envelope from its mouth, and the bird takes off again.

            “I attract them,” I call to the man, who’s still gaping at me.

            Turning the envelope over, I feel a hard pang. It’s Ginny’s writing. Well. She sent me a short letter when she got back from her vacation, and I sent a few lines back, but the whole thing felt awkward. It’s been over a year and a half since we broke up. I thought there would always be this place in my heart for her, but as time goes on…I don’t know. Things have changed in ways I never expected.

            I wait until I’m on the train before opening the letter. To be honest, I consider not opening it at all. I wanted to sit on the train and have time to think before finding Baltasar. So I wasn’t a needy mess when I got back to him. He’s been so good to me this past while. I want to be a partner to him, not just someone he needs to keep an eye on. I know he doesn’t think of me that way—if he did, he would tell me so—but I need to meet him halfway with this relationship. Us being together is unlikely enough. I have to be willing to make the effort.

            I open the letter, because it’s from Ginny. Because I should.

 

_Dear Nev,_

_I know you’ll tell me not to, but I wanted to tell you again how sorry I am that I missed Frank’s funeral. I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there for you. I could prevaricate and small talk to you and try to slip it into the conversation, but there’s no use doing that. I can’t stop thinking about how I wasn’t there for you when the day came._

_Going to the Amazon was a mistake on a number of levels. I’m sure you know about the man I was seeing. Past tense, because I broke up with him last week. If you really want to know someone’s character, cut yourself off from civilization with them for two weeks. I’m not sure what I was thinking. We went on so many adventures, you and I, and it always brought us closer. Maybe I thought that would happen with me and him. Not the case._

_So I was off being eaten alive by insects when I should have been here. Mum says that you’re doing all right, that she was proud of how well you handled everything. She still loves you far more than she ever will me, and I can’t even blame her for that._

_I worry that the last letter I sent you was too short, but the truth is that I’m not sure what to say to you. I know what I want to say, but it might not be appropriate. I know, Ginny Weasley, worrying about what’s appropriate. Will wonders never cease? I don’t want to tread where I’m not wanted. I know you’re seeing someone as well (the papers can get fucked, by the way), and I hope that it’s making you happy. I can’t help but be dreadfully jealous. I can’t help but still think of you as mine. I want to say that I’m glad you’re doing well, but that means saying I’m glad you’re doing well with someone else, so it would be a lie._

_I’ve half a mind not to send you this, but I wanted to tell you that I miss you. I can’t believe how long it’s been since we last saw one another. Please let me know if you’ll be at the Burrow for Christmas. I hope you will be. I hope that we can talk._

_Wherever this finds you, I hope it finds you well. Talk to you soon._

_Love,_

_Ginny._

            I fold the piece of paper, then slip it back into its envelope. Tapping it against my knee several times, I look at the landscape streaming by beyond the window.

            With a swallow, I take out my wand, and set it to against the envelope. “ _Incendio_ ,” I murmur.

            The paper goes up in a small column of flame. It burns bright for a few seconds, but quickly disintegrates to ashes. I drop it in the metal bin on the wall.

            Things change.

 

I hold up the shirt, arching a brow, and tilt my head to look at Baltasar around it. He’s flipping through old photos. When he feels my gaze, he lifts his head. “What in the fresh hell is that?”

            The blue paisley shirt with fur collar has to be seen to be believed. “The seventies, I imagine.” Folding it, I hold it out towards him. “Could you use it in your act?”

            “Only if I wanted to scare away my customers.”

            We’re sitting on the floor of the cottage, going through the contents of the box Gran gave me. It’s just odds and ends, really. Photos of people I don’t know. Stray pieces of clothes I think were left at Gran’s when Dad moved out. Some pocketbooks.

            I pull out a pair of gloves and say, “I have no idea why these things are in here. Any of it. It’s just a mishmash.” It’s a word I’ve learned from him, and I use it for a great many things.

            “In your grandmother’s defense—”

            “No. We’re not defending her for anything today.”

            Baltasar makes a face. “It was really that bad.”

            “I will not step foot in that house until she apologizes to me. Since she won’t, I suppose I shan’t return until she’s dead.” Sighing, I toss the gloves aside. “I know I behaved like an idiot. If anyone heard the things I said to her—about Dad—I would actually die of embarrassment. There was no call for it, even with how she works me up. But I’ve let her get away with treating me like shit for thirty years, and I just don’t have the energy for it any longer.”

            He gives me a crooked smile. “That’s my man.”

            I smile to hear him call me that. “Any good ones? We could donate them to the War Museum.”

            Raising his shoulders, Baltasar continues shuffling the photos like a card deck. “I get that your dad was a war hero and probably a real stellar guy, but he couldn’t hold a camera still to save his life.” Baltasar holds up an old Polaroid to prove his point. The movement is all smears.

            “Why would he save that?” I ask, bewildered.

            “I’m not the person to ask. I’m not big on possessions.” Baltasar tosses the photo to his other hand, and tilts his head. He shows me another photo, this one only a little out of focus. “Is that your mom?”

            “Yeah.” I reach out, taking the photo. She’s young. I can’t tell because the picture isn’t in focus, but her blond hair is quite short, almost a pixie, and not the bob it was when I was born. I can’t make out the fine details, but her smile breaks through. She had the best smile. Pity I’ve never seen it in person. “How did you know it was her?”

            “The way she’s smiling there? Either it’s your mom or your dad was hanging onto some pictures of an old girlfriend. Seemed more diplomatic to go with ‘mother.’”

            “Shut up,” I say, but not without affection. I set the photo down next to me. That one I’ll keep. “Do you have any memories of your parents? Before they passed on?”

            It’s not a question I would have asked until recently. I don’t do a lot of prying into his childhood, because all the stories he has are of some hurt that horrifies me, and horrifies me twice over when he’s not perturbed by the telling.

            Baltasar pauses, then shrugs. “I’m not sure. I have these…impressions. Sort of vague memories, and I don’t know if it’s really them or maybe I just made a picture in my mind from some old photos I saw or something. I mean, I know that’s not really the case. There certainly weren’t pictures of my dad around. My grandmother burned my mom out of nearly all the photographs. She probably did the same with me.”

            “What memories do you have of them? Or impressions?”

            He blows out a breath, not keen to tell me. But he tells me anyways. “I think I remember sitting on the floor. The two of them arguing. Just these…blurry shapes with dark hair.”

            “Are you telling me that’s not your natural colour?”

            “Listen, smartass,” he says, and I grin. Baltasar continues flipping through the photos, shaking his head. “I don’t know how I could remember that, though. They left me with my grandmother when I was six months, and they died a little after I turned one. I asked Mormor if they’d been back to visit after they left me there, and she said no. So I might have just made it up, or it was somebody else I saw.”

            As gently as I’m able, I say, “Did you ever wonder if…maybe she wasn’t telling you the whole story?”

            “Yeah, of course. Trust me, you don’t have to tiptoe around me on that one. When I was sixteen, and I left home, I went looking for people who knew them. It was pretty much just like she told me. They were young, they weren’t ready to have kids, I wasn’t important enough, they left me behind. They died doing something stupid. Truth was, my grandmother hadn’t gone into some of the worse details. I didn’t find them out until later. They were just stupid, irresponsible kids, Neville. I don’t really have a whole lot to say about them.”

            “Aren’t we a pair.”

            “I guess so.” Baltasar gets to the end of the pile and puts them aside. “No hidden gems, hobbit. Sorry.”

            “It’s all right.” On a whim, I ask, “Would you want kids?”

            He stares at me, for a moment almost stricken. “Why…would you ask that?”

            “Why wouldn’t I?”

            Uncomfortable, Baltasar says, “Look—Neville—we’ve got a good thing going here, but it’s only been a few months, and if you’re already asking if I want kids—”

            “No,” I say, blushing. “No, I wasn’t asking like _that_.”

            “You weren’t,” Baltasar says, relieved.

            “No. For heaven’s sake. I was asking from curiosity, is all.”

            “Okay. Cool.” Baltasar pauses, then says, “I guess…um…I haven’t really been in a long term relationship in a pretty long time. When is the appropriate time for you to dump me for something like that? Just so I kind of have an idea.”

            “We are not breaking up.”

            “But you want kids. And I do not.”

            I take a breath. “You know what?”

            “What?”

            “I have a few hundred kids. And I’ve already chosen them over having my own. So if it doesn’t happen…it may not be the end of the world.” I expect him to be even more relieved, but Baltasar looks put out. “What did I say?”

            “You…would be a really good dad, Neville.”

            It hits me harder than it should. Or maybe I’m just vulnerable because my own father has passed away. I raise and drop my shoulders, ready to get away from the topic. “We’ll see.” I reach into the box, moving aside an old sock, and a glimmer of something shines up at me. “What’s this?”

            I pull the small tube from the corner of the box, holding it up against the light. It’s silvery and shining, the tube dusty, but the liquid inside untouched.

            “Are those memory tears?” Baltasar asks.

            “Memory tears?”

            “What do you call them here?”

            “Just memories.” I turn the tube over, and read the label. “Oh.”

            “What is it?”

            I show him the label. _Neville’s First Word_. Baltasar’s eyes widen. “Wow. So you did find buried treasure.”

            “I guess I did.” I turn the tube over in my hand, heart beating a little faster.

            “Do you have a—what do you call it here?”

            “Can I get more detail than that?”

            Baltasar cups his hands together. “Memory gate.”

            “A pensieve?”

            “Whatever, English. Jesus.”

            “I don’t. But there’s one in the Headmistress’ office. I can ask McGonagall if I could use it.” I slip the memory into my pocket, and give Baltasar a smile. “Glad I found that.”

            “That’s not the real find, though.” Baltasar lifts the single, lonely sock from the box. “You think the War Museum will take this too?”

            “They might. Smart arse.”

            He smiles, and throws me the sock. I catch it, and throw it back at him.

 

I’m not sure what wakes me up. It’s dark and late and I’m very, very sleepy.

            But the bed is half empty.

            I look back over my shoulder. Baltasar is silhouetted against the window. He has one arm wrapped around himself, and the other hand is up to his mouth. It looks like he’s chewing on his nails, which I’ve never seen him do before. He gazes out at the night, unmoving.

            “What are you doing?” I mumble, rolling over.

            He jumps. “Fuck—Neville. Go back to sleep.” He rubs at his face quickly, turning his back to me.

            Narrowing my eyes, I ask, “Are you all right?”

            “Fine,” Baltasar says quietly. “I just can’t sleep.”

            I watch him a moment, so small and solitary. Can’t let that stand. Drawing back the sheets, I climb out of bed and walk across the room to him. Putting a hand to the nape of his neck, I ask, “What are we looking at?”

            “Nothing, really.” Baltasar sighs, then wraps an arm around me. He falls against my side, nuzzling his face to my shoulder. He scratches my belly a little, swaying.

            I pet his hair and wait to see if he wants to tell me something.

            “What if we just leave?”

            “What do you mean?”

            He tilts his head back. Totally unreserved, earnest. “If we just pick up and left. If we went somewhere, you and I. Never looked back.”

            I smile slightly. “Where would we go?”

            “As far from the past as possible. Malaysia. Uzbekistan. Moscow. I haven’t been to Moscow yet. I bet I could give the Russians a run for their money.”

            “I’ve never been to any of those places.”

            “Imagine all the plants you could find. We could go on adventures. Away from all this.”

            I wait for any sign that he’s kidding. That he’s pulling his punches. Only he’s not. He’s dead serious.

            Gentle as I’m able, I say, “You know I can’t.”

            Baltasar immediately looks down, nodding. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

            “It’s not that it doesn’t sound nice—”

            “It’s fine, Neville. I know you’ve got responsibilities, I just—” He lets out a short laugh. “Restless or something. It’s okay.” He puts both arms around me, giving me a squeeze. Except he feels a bit hunched.

            Worried, I ask, “Are you…do you need to leave?”

            “No. No, I’m where I need to be.”

            I know I can’t keep him here forever. It’s not in his nature. He’s been here two months, and I doubt he could tell me the last time he stayed somewhere so long. The day will come when he can’t bear to stay any longer. That day I’ll have to let him go.

            Or…

            I start to speak, and Baltasar pushes himself back from me a bit, but still holding onto me. “Let’s dance,” he says.

            “Beg pardon?”

            “Dance with me.” He lets me go, and goes to get something from his jacket pocket. He takes out some gadget, making it light up, and rolls his thumb along it for a bit before poking at it. Music quietly drifts upward, an instrument I couldn’t name. Baltasar sets the gadget down, then comes back. He lifts my hand, putting it on his shoulder, and takes my other hand. “Like this.”

            “Why did you just assume I don’t know how to dance?” Baltasar gives me a knowing look, then slips his hand over my hip. Capitulating, I say, “I should warn you, I’ll step on your toes—”

            He steps onto my feet. “There. Now you can’t.”

            Laughing, I say, “I can hardly move now.”

            “I’m not asking you to waltz. Just dance with me, handsome.” Baltasar moves closer, resting himself against my body.

            His weight isn’t too much. It’s awkward, but admittedly far less awkward than any of the dances you have to perform in dress robes. I shuffle, wrapping my arm around his shoulder. “Like this?”

            “Perfect,” Baltasar murmurs.

            The instrument sighs a little, a touch melancholy. I think it might even be a guitar. It’s some string instrument. I get more comfortable with each second. If I shuffle long enough, I might even turn him in a circle.

            I think I may be in love with this man.

            “Can’t start a fire,” Baltasar sings softly. “Can’t start a fire without a spark. This gun’s for hire, even if we’re just dancing in the dark.”

            I hold him close, and we dance in the moonlight.


	25. Chapter 25

The man sits on the floor with a baby. The man is strong jawed, with dark hair sensibly cut. He has his sleeves rolled up exactly to his elbows, pants crisply ironed. He holds up a card with a large D on it.

            “D, Neville. D. As in dinosaur. Dessert. Deny. Desist.”

            The baby falls on his back.

            Dad immediately has the baby under the armpits, sitting him back up. “All right there, Nev?” But the baby is giggling, waving his arms.

            The baby looks like he hasn’t a care in the world. Blond ringlets, chubby cheeks—chubby everything—a wide smile with tiny teeth. He puts his hands on Dad’s face and blows bubbles with his mouth.

            Dad smiles after a moment. He looks tired, but it’s like he can’t help himself when the baby smiles at him. Picking his cards back up, Dad flips to another one. “E. E. E as in elephant. Enough. Egress. Elliptical.”

            “ _Frank_ ,” a woman says from the other room. “He’s a little young for elliptical.”

            “You’re never too young to read, Alice.”

            A woman with blond hair the same shade as the baby’s leans around the door frame. “He’s 11 months old, Frank.”

            “He can tell the difference,” Dad says stubbornly. “He likes N the best. He knows his own name.”

            Mum sits down on the sofa. She looks tired as well. Hands between her knees, Mum says, “He knows his name, Frank. I just don’t think he knows the alphabet yet.”

            “Ye of little faith.” Dad holds up the next card. “G. G. G as in giraffe. Great. Gryffindor. Gran.”

            “He’ll never like G if you start there.” Dad looks up with a scowl, and Mum says, “I’m teasing.”

            “She’s worried sick—”

            “I know. I’m teasing, Frank. Do you remember teasing?”

            Dad shakes his head. “I don’t know if I can remember my own name right now.”

            “It’s Fred. Fred Longbottle.”

            “Right. Fred and his lovely wife Alison.”

            “And their beautiful baby boy—” Mum squints at the baby. “Norton?”

            “Newton, I think.” Mum flops down sideways on the sofa, and Dad asks, “Did you get any sleep?”

            Mum says against the cushions, “All told, about an hour. And the whole of it was dreaming about You-Know-Who and waking up in a panic. You should lie down. Try to sleep.”

            “No,” Dad says, going to the next card.

            “Darling.”

            “Let us get through the pack, Alice. He’ll be ready for a nap by then.”

            Mum obviously wants to tell him to stop now, but she sighs. “All right. Let’s see how smart little Norton is.”

            “That’s Newton Longbottle to you, madam.” Mum pulls a pillow beneath her head, and Dad holds up the card. “H. This is an H. H as in holiday. Happy. Hogwarts. One day you’ll go to Hogwarts, Neville. You’ll be the best student they’ve ever seen.”

            “That’s a lot of pressure for an infant.”

            “It’s not pressure, it’s facts. Nev’s brilliant.”

            “That G word you mentioned thinks he’s a squib.”

            Making a face, Dad says, “I’m not saying she’s right about everything, Alice, I’m just asking you to give her some slack.”

            “Give her a smack? Gladly.” Dad drops his hands in his lap, glaring at Mum, and Mum says, “I’m so tired. You know I’m just tired.”

            Dad shakes his head, looking at the baby. “He’s not a squib.”

            “You’re damned right he’s not.” Dad looks scandalized, like that’s the most either of them are allowed to curse in this house. “I wouldn’t care if he was.”

            “No. Nor I. Even if he couldn’t do magic at all, he’d still be a scholar.”

            “That’s what you want him to be? An academic?”

            “It’s a lot safer.”

            “Too right.” Mum smiles. “What about—Neville Longbottom, Hogwarts professor?”

            “Now I know you’re teasing.”

            “No. If he’s going to be an academic, he might as well be a teacher. I don’t like the thought of him trapped up in some tower, never speaking to anyone but ghosts. Drowning in paper. I want him to live a full, happy life.”

            “He will.”

            “What if he doesn’t?”

            “Don’t say that,” Dad says flatly.

            Mum gives it a few seconds, then reaches towards the baby, not quite able to touch him. “Do you want to be some stuffy academic, Nevvy? All alone?”

            “No,” the baby says.

            The two adults freeze.

            They look at one another, eyes wide. Mum says, “Did he—”

            “I don’t—” Dad says. They both turn back to the baby, leaning towards him eagerly. “Neville. Do you—want beets for dinner?”

            The baby says, “No.”

            Mum lets out a shriek, and Dad sweeps the baby up into his arms. He rolls over onto his back, and Mum pounces them both. “No!” Dad yells as the baby starts crying. “He said no!”

            Mum starts tickling the baby. “You hate beets, don’t you, Nevvy? Don’t you?”

            “No!” the baby wails.

            Mum and Dad are laughing over the baby’s tears, Mum laying kisses all over the baby’s back. “What a good boy,” Mum says. “What a good word!”

            “What an excellent word!”

            “What an elliptical word!”

            “No!” the baby insists, waving his fists.

            “No!” Dad yells.

            “No!” Mum yells.

            They laugh, and laugh, and eventually the baby laughs too, and even bops Dad on the nose while yelling, “No!” They roll around on the floor, saying the same word over and over.

 

I lift my face from the pensieve, stepping back.

            I take a moment, my hands on either side of the pensieve. I’ve seen memories of my parents before—Algie left me several—but never one from either of their perspective. I like that they irritated one another. I like that they weren’t the perfect people everyone always says they were.

            And to think—this is where they wanted me to be. What they wanted me to do. Life is funny like that sometimes.

            I take the glass tube and carefully slip the memory back inside. I pop the cap back on, then slip it into my pocket.

            It’s the last day of classes. Most of the children will leave on the Express tomorrow morning, and the next two weeks will be quiet. I’m looking forward to the break. It’s been a strange few months.

            I push back the screen that keeps this little nook sectioned off from the rest of the office. It’s another grey day, the kind of day that would be best spent by a fireplace with a book. A warm beverage. I’ll do that tonight, in my own room. I have to be here tonight, before all the students go. There will be plenty of time for The Boar’s Head or cottage in the days to come.

            McGonagall is standing on the balcony. I’m half hesitant to interrupt her. But it’s December, and she’s an old woman standing outdoors. I go to the glass door, and tap on it. She looks back, and nods.

            I step away when she returns indoors, bringing a short gust of wind with her. “Finished,” I say. “Thank you, Headmistress.”

            “Of course. I hope it was a happy memory.”

            “It was. Thank you.” I clear my throat, and go to walk away.

            But McGonagall says, “May I have a few moments, Longbottom?”

            It doesn’t surprise me. I knew that asking for a favour would most likely result in one being asked. “Of course.”

            McGonagall sits down behind her desk, folding her hands. I take the seat in front of the desk, uncomfortable. She’s kept her voice low and non confrontational since I knocked at her door. I have to hope that this conversation won’t be too terribly intense.

            “We haven’t spoken lately.”

            “No.”

            “I could prevaricate, but I’ve never done so before, and it would be an insult to do so now. So I’ll cut to the chase, as it were, Longbottom.”

            “All right.”

            “I receive several letters a day asking me to remove you as a professor from Hogwarts.”

            “Oh.”

            “You’re a frequent target for _The Daily Prophet_ , and it’s having the desired effect. Between Brult and everything else, public opinion has turned against you, whether you care about that or not.”

            “I don’t…no. I don’t particularly care what the public thinks of me.”

            “You ought to. It’s reaching an untenable point. There was a poll in the paper the other day, asking if the readers agreed or disagreed with the decision to expel Brult. 51% agreed. Only 51. A student attempts an Unforgivable curse in a classroom, and only half the population thinks he should have been expelled. The truth is, that number would have been far higher, had it been any professor besides you.”

            I shake my head. “If the public wants to be idiots, they’re welcome to it.”

            McGonagall closes her eyes briefly, exhaling through her nose. From up on the wall, a voice says, “She’s trying to do you a favour, Longbottom—”

            “No one asked your opinion,” I reply without looking up.

            There’s some murmuring from the other portraits, but McGonagall says, “Thank you, but this conversation is between Longbottom and I.” Tapping her thumbs together, McGonagall gazes at me. “The petition to return traditional sorting was defeated, but not by a large margin. The MA are making gains. In the government, in the press, in the public consciousness. The more unreasonable we seem, the more reasonable they appear. Dynes has done everything except sell his soul to keep Wulfric from Azkaban, and at this point, the boy might not see any punishment at all. While you’re ignoring the world around you, things are becoming quite dire. Do you understand?”

            Calmly, I say, “I understand that things are serious. But it sounds like…”

            “Like what?”

            “Like you think I’m to blame for this.”

            “Arrogant,” the same portrait says.

            “Severus,” McGonagall snaps, glaring upwards. Once the portrait seems mollified, McGonagall turns her eyes back to me. “Of course I’m not saying that you’re to blame for all the ills in the world. But you’re not making it any easier. For any of us. Surely you can see that.”

            “I can’t, actually. What is it that you think that I should be doing differently? Let Wulfric back into the school to mollify the MA? Give an interview to the papers about my father dying to seem more approachable? What is it that I should be doing?”

            “Neville.”

            Raising my shoulders, I say coldly, “No. It’s about Baltasar. That’s the one thing you think I should be differently. Cut him loose and everything will be fine, is that it?”

            “I know you think I’m being cruel—”

            “All that I could do to fight the MA, and the one thing you’ve—fixated on, it’s taking away about the only thing that makes me genuinely happy. How is my getting rid of Baltasar going to solve all our problems? It’s bad press for me to date a man, but change that, and put on this appearance of being a sexless, straight Hogwarts professor, and all of a sudden it’s better, right?”

            “I’m not saying that.”

            “What _are_ you saying? Since I’ve been so naïve.”

            “What I’m saying is…I don’t think you entirely understand the situation you’ve placed yourself in,” McGonagall says carefully.

            “What does that even mean?”

            “I mean…you’re being played, Neville.”

            “I’m what?”

            “This man…he seemingly came out of nowhere—”

            My jaw has dropped. “Are you mental?”

            There are cries of outrage from the portraits. McGonagall puts a hand up to silence them. She folds her hands together again. “I know that you won’t want to listen to what I have to say—”

            “Are you honestly going to sit there and tell me that you think my boyfriend is a spy?”

            “I’m not saying that either. I’m—suggesting that there might be a great deal that you don’t know about him. And that might hurt you—and Hogwarts—more than you might think.”

            “Why would you say that?”

            McGonagall steadies herself, then says, “I asked Dean Thomas if he could look into the matter.”

            I stare at her.

            “You have to understand my reasoning behind this, Neville. _The Prophet_ has been writing stories on your—friendship—for weeks, and yet they’ve never published the man’s name. That’s not how they do business. The only way it mae sense was if there was something about him that could be used as a weapon against you. I did this for your protection. Dean thinks that he might have found something—”

            “How dare you,” I rasp.

            She sighs. “Neville—”

            “How _dare_ you.” I get to my feet. The blood has drained from my face. I don’t care that I have known this woman my whole life. I don’t care about all she’s done for me. There’s one question, and one question alone, and it’s _how dare she_. “If you have a problem with me and how I conduct my personal life, you come to me. You don’t go to an _Auror_ and invade my boyfriend’s privacy—”

            “I did this to keep you safe—”

            “You did this because you need to be in control! You can’t stand when even a single piece of the Hogwarts machinery isn’t working exactly how you planned—I am such an idiot! I’m such an idiot, I cannot believe I thought you cared about me. All you care about is how this place looks. Neville Longbottom, Hogwarts Headmaster? It has nothing to do with whether I deserved it, it’s only because I survived the war and it will look good one day to have a survivor sit in that chair. Merlin’s _beard_ , what is it about that chair? Everyone who sits in it loses their bloody minds!”

            I turn and storm towards the door. McGonagall calls, “Neville, stay—”

            “Enough!” I shout. I grab the door. Right now, I feel like I could pull it off its hinges.

            “His name is not Baltasar Byquist!”

            I’m not sure how many seconds pass. I realize I’m just standing here, standing at the door.

            Blinking, I turn around. “What did you just say?” I ask quietly.

            McGonagall is standing behind her desk. She’s breathing quickly. “His name’s not Baltasar Byquist. It’s—”

            “Shut it!” I roar.

            The room erupts as the portraits attempt to shout me down. I don’t hear a word they say. I’m staring at McGonagall, my pulse echoing in my ears. She’s staring at me, mouth drawn in an O.

            Pointing at her, I say, “You don’t—enough. I am done with—I’m done with this. We’re not discussing this again. I’m not discussing anything with you. If you don’t like that, you can find another Herbology professor.”

            “Ask him about Kilm—”

            I put up a hand, unable to look at her. If I do, I half think I’d hex her. “You and I are done.”

            I open the door and leave. She calls my name, but I don’t stop.

 

The clock has never moved so slowly in my life.

            At one point, I get up to check on it. Everything in the greenhouse becomes suffused with dirt over the time, so maybe it’s breaking down. No. No such luck. Time is just moving at a glacial pace.

            I’m not the only one jittering. It’s the last class of the day before the holidays. Even my future herbologists look miserable at having to spend another half hour in this room. Everyone’s moving slowly, casting constant glances up at the clock.

            I stand at the head of class as my second years glumly work on their mandrakes. I’m not here. I’m just not. I want to break things. I want to run into the hills to the cottage and ask Baltasar what the hell is going on. I don’t want to tell him a thing, just wrap him up in my arms and forget that the rest of this day ever happened.

            Looking into my private business. _My_ life.

            “Sod it,” I say, hands on my hips. My second years look at me in surprise. I wave them on. “Last class before holidays, I’m setting you free early.” Most of them quickly grab their bags. “You’ll clean up first, though! The second this place is up to my specifications, we can all start our holidays.” I clap my hands twice. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?”

            They look thrilled. I feel desperate.

 

I apparate onto the front yard of the cottage. The next thing I hear is a yelp and a thud.

            “Are you all right?” I ask instinctively.

            The day is cold and grey and miserable. The cottage looks particularly decrepit from the outside. It could be the long lost sister to the Shrieking Shack. I feel all jumbled inside.

            “Ow,” a small voice says.

            “Are you okay?”

            I’ve barely started walking when Baltasar comes racing around the side of the building. He has a wild grin on his face. “Neville!” he shouts. I expect him to slow as he comes at me, but he doesn’t. I can only brace myself. When he reaches me, he pops up into my arms, swinging his arms and legs around me. Baltasar takes me by the face and kisses me, unreserved and hard.

            I hold him up, off guard. My gut response is to kiss him back, so I do. Of course I do.

            Baltasar leans back, pumping his fists in the air. “I did it!” he says gleefully.

            “Did what?”

            He taps me on the chest, and I let him down. Baltasar grabs my hand, pulling me forward. “Come here. I want to show you. The exact spot. I’m so excited, I can’t wait to show you.”

            His enthusiasm is infectious. It’s so rare to see him this giddy. I don’t know that I ever have. I let him lead me around the house.

            Baltasar lets me go, backing away from me. “All right—I don’t care if you don’t give a shit. I worked really hard on this, so regardless of what you think, you’re going to applaud and be supportive or I’ll burn off your eyebrows.”

            “Is this some new trick for the Muggles—”

            He shushes me, looking side to side, as if he’s trying to find some precise spot in the snow. Whatever it is, he seems to find it. Baltasar sets his feet slightly apart, seeming to speak under his breath, like he’s talking himself into something. He stops that, and goes still. Closing his eyes, he puts his hands down at his sides.

            I wait a few beats, but he’s just standing there, breathing. I remember why I’m here, and say, “Can we not do this some other—”

            Baltasar hisses, shutting me up. I flinch, giving my head a shake. I have questions. I have to talk to him, I need him to tell me that I shouldn’t worry, that none of it is true—

            Baltasar exhales, and it’s as though some invisible force pulls him upwards by the shoulder. One moment, he’s on the ground. The next, he’s lifted, and then he’s levitating.

            He doesn’t open his eyes. He keeps his breathing measured as he rises further from the ground. Somehow, he makes it look effortless. His feet dangle downwards. He floats entirely of his own free will, untethered to this world.

            I’m not sure how long I watch him. It’s extraordinary. Baltasar lets his head fall back, turning his hands outwards. He lets out a deep breath, so deep it feels like he’s been holding it for years.

            He did it. He’s worked so hard, and he’s finally accomplished what he set out to do.

            But then I see them all in my mind’s eye.

            The Death Eaters. I see Voldemort, flying through the air. I see Snape. I see the Carrows. Alecto and Amycus couldn’t fly far, but they would come hurtling at their victims from nowhere, and I remember the children screaming—

            “Come down from there,” I say, choked.

            His feet higher than my head, leaing back, Baltasar says, “I’ve got it—just let me concentrate—”

            “I said come down from there!” I shout.

            It seems to happen slowly, but it’s the span of a second. Baltasar gasps, his left shoulder jerking down as if his string has been cut. The rest of his body follows, and he plummets. He drops ten feet, twisting—

            And lands ontop of his arm. The snap of bone echoes into the winter afternoon.

            I step forward, then stop. Baltasar sucks in a breath. At the tail end is a whimper. He turns onto his backside, lifting his arm. He’s holding his hand up gingerly, and without having to ask, I know he’s broken his wrist.

            Baltasar stares at it a moment, then looks at me. He doesn’t look so much betrayed as confused. “I said I had to concentrate.”

            Every bit of me wants to apologize. To get on my knees and beg forgiveness. Instead, I say, “I told you to stop it.”

            Baltasar stares at me, uncomprehending.

            It sets me off. There’s a dark streak of irritation running through me, and I don’t know what to do with it. I’ve no idea if I’m being unreasonable or if I’m entirely justified. What I know is that I have to get away from him.

            So I turn and walk to the cottage. I throw open the door and stride into the middle of the single room. My heart is pattering at an unhealthy speed, and I’m both furious with Baltasar and ashamed of myself. There are two completely different impulses at war inside me, and I don’t know how to resolve them. If they can be resolved.

            I was so stupid. Thinking that things were going so well. But that’s just me. I’m thick.

            I try to catch my breath. I’m inhaling and exhaling too deeply, sounding like a bull. Should I leave? If I stay, I think I’m going to lose my temper, and the rational side of me knows that he just broke a bone. Perhaps I should leave—

            No. No, I came here for a reason. I’m not leaving here without having at least _some_ answers.

            I hear Baltasar step inside. I can see his reflection in the opposite window. He’s cradling his arm against his chest, looking at me with some hesitation. “Can—can you take care of this?” Baltasar asks quietly. “My wand isn’t great with healing.”

            I let out a short, bitter laugh. “There’s a shock.”

            “Beg pardon?”

            I put my hands up to my face. If I could get my breathing under control…if I could just find some sense of balance.

            “What’s wrong?”

            “Where do I bloody start?”

            “Listen—if you’re mad about something, could we maybe do that after we deal with my wrist—” I hunch, and Baltasar snaps, “Neville! I just broke something! Could you act like you care and help me take care of that?”

            With a growl, I pull my wand. Turning, I point at him and say, “ _Reparo_!”

            Baltasar is pushed back several feet. He yelps, grabbing onto the wall to keep his balance. He catches himself, then looks to me with wide eyes. “What—the _fuck_ is wrong with you?”

            “What’s wrong with me?” I put my wand away, because I know it’s dangerous to have it in my hand right now. “How about I’m an idiot? I’m a big, thick idiot, and I should have seen this coming.”

            Baltasar is still holding his arm against his chest. He’s looking at me as if I’m insane. “You need to give me more than that, because I’m not easily scared, but you’re starting to scare me—”

            “What’s your real name?”

            The room goes still. I can hear my heart beating, I can feel the blood coursing through me, but everything around me goes perfectly calm. Baltasar doesn’t say a word. He looks at me, and holds his arm, and it’s as if he has no idea what I’m talking about.

            It’s enfuriating. He’s not reacting, he’s not doing anything. I point to the outside world. “I’m so thick, that it never occurred to me how convenient this all was. But it was convenient, wasn’t it? Just some man I met on holiday, no plans to see him again, and then you just pop up weeks later, as if that’s just a thing people do. But that wasn’t why it happened, was it? Who are you? Why are you here?”

            He still says nothing. He gazes at me, brows furrowed.

            Working myself up to shouting, I say, “McGonagall had an Auror look into you! She says Baltasar Byquist isn’t your name! So what is it?” He just stands there, and I can’t stand it. “What’s your damned name?!”

            Baltasar finally moves. “Get out,” he says, walking across the cottage.

            “What?”

            “You’re not the first man I fucked to break one of my bones. You can get the fuck out.”

            “Don’t make it about—”

            Baltasar whirls around. “I fell because you broke my concentration! Because you’re pissed about some rumours somebody else told you, somebody who’s been trying to run me out of here from the second my face was in a paper! I broke my wrist, and then you just threw me across the room with some shitty spell, so no, Neville, I don’t want you here, I want you to leave.”

            “Are you going to stand there and tell me it’s not true?”

            “I don’t have to explain myself to you,” Baltasar says, and his certainty makes me furious.

            “Yes, actually, you do! You’re supposed to be my boyfriend—”

            “Yeah, and you’re supposed to be mine, and you come in here yelling about things you obviously already fucking know, so I don’t know what is going on here.”

            “What are you talking about, that I already know?”

            “You know my mom’s mom raised me. You know that she was a Byquist. It’s my deadbeat father’s name on the birth certificate, of course it is. Do you think I wanted to walk around with the name of the man who abandoned me? What’s wrong with you? My grandmother might be a fucking sadist, but at least she raised me. I _am_ Baltasar Byquist, and if you think I want to be that either, you are out of your mind, but it doesn’t change the fact that that’s my name. Are you happy now?”

            I think about it, then say, “I don’t believe you.”

            Baltasar groans. “Neville—if you’re cracking under the pressure of the world knowing your business, that’s your issue. It’s not mine. I know who I am.”

            “I don’t have a damned clue who you are!”

            “How can you say that? I’ve been here—I’ve been all in for months, I’ve told you things I haven’t told anyone—I _stayed_ here for you, and now you want to act like I’ve done something wrong?”

            “Have you done something wrong?”

            Baltasar rolls his eyes and turns his back on me. “This is ridiculous.”

            He goes to his rucksack, opening it and digging around inside with his good hand. “Don’t do that, don’t act like I’m the one who needs to explain himself—”

            “I don’t need to explain anything,” Baltasar says tightly. “You believe me or you don’t. That’s your problem.”

            “Why did you come up here?” I demand. “We were done. You and I were done, it was a fantasy, it was just some summer fling, and then you showed up on my doorstep, like that was normal. Are you honestly telling me that was a coincidence?”

            Baltasar can’t seem to find what he’s looking for. Throwing down some socks, he turns back to me. “You sound crazy right now. You sound paranoid.”

            “Tell me I’m wrong to be paranoid. Tell me it’s nothing to do with—”

            I can’t come up with the next words, and Baltasar says, “What? Nothing to do with what?”

            “With—with the papers! Or the MA!”

            Baltasar stares at me, then says, “You’ve lost your mind.”

            “I have not! I cut McGonagall off before she could get out more than a few words, but I should have listened. I should have listened, only I was thinking, no, no not Baltasar, I trust him, of course I trust him. But I should have listened to her, instead of being a fool, and having to listen to this shit.”

            Baltasar looks down, biting his lip. “Okay,” he says quietly. “You’ve had a really bad few weeks, and some really stressful months, so I get that you’re upset, but you’re taking it out on me, and that is not acceptable.”

            “Not acceptable?!” I shout. “I don’t even know your bloody name!”

            He closes his eyes briefly, shaking his head. “You need to leave.”

            “I am not leaving this place until you tell me that truth.”

            Baltasar continues to gaze at the floor. I can practically see the gears working in his mind. His stillness makes me more upset. I want to shake the truth from him. I need him to tell me the truth.

            Baltasar lifts his eyes and says, “No.”

            I blink. “What?”

            “It doesn’t matter what I tell you,” Baltasar says calmly. “Either you believe me or you don’t. I don’t know why you’re doing this, if it’s your boss or your friends or what your students’ parents think or if you just can’t handle what’s going on between us, but you’re obviously looking for an out, and you’re trying to make it my fault instead of yours. You can either listen to what I’m telling you and take it at face value, or you can believe what other people tell you and fuck up a really good thing here, Neville. Maybe the best thing. But I’m not going to play this game with you. There’s no way for me to win.”

            I look at him, then I sneer. “Merlin’s beard, you’re a good liar.”

            He shrugs. “If that’s what you want to believe. That’s your choice. But I’ve been here, for you, the way you are, not the way you were or the way people wish you were. I’ve been here for you, and that doesn’t change because you want a way out.”

            “Why did you come up here in the first place?”

            Baltasar looks at me with the saddest eyes. Like he’s hurt that I don’t understand. “I came up here because I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Every other guy I’ve been with, I could just forget. But I couldn’t forget about you. I had to see you again. I came here because I wanted to be with you.”

            “You’re lying.”

            “I’m not.”

            “It makes no sense. You can’t stand there and tell me any of it makes sense. The papers won’t print your name. They photographed us out in the middle of nowhere, where they would have no idea we’d go unless you told them. You appear just when I’m having the worst trouble of my professional life, an absolute disaster for my reputation, and you want me to believe that’s a coincidence?”

            Baltasar chews his lower lip. “I changed my mind. I don’t want you to stay. I don’t want you to apologize. I just want you to get away from me.”

            “Stop it.”

            “Stop what?”

            “Acting like you’re hurt, you’re not hurt, you don’t give a shit about me, you just want to hold onto your secrets.”

            And the thing is—I know I’m being unreasonable. I know I am making a complete arse of myself, that I am fucking up a relationship that means more to me than just about anything. I don’t know why I’m doing it, but I know that I can’t stop. I can’t stop now.

            Baltasar won’t even reply, so I say, “What’s Kilm?”

            He doesn’t so much as blink. He just stands there, holding his ground.

            “What is it?” It’s not a question, it’s a demand. I have to know. I need him to tell me I’m wrong, I need him to fix this, because all I can do is tear everything down. “What is it? _Who_ is it? Tell me. Tell me, or so help me, I will never look back. Tell me what it is. Is it to do with the tattoo on your back? Where did you come from? Are you a dark wizard, like the rest of your family? What terrible thing did you do that you can’t even say it, because I do not believe for a second that this is a matter of self respect. You’re just protecting yourself, and if you care about me, if you really care about me, you’ll tell me. What is it? Tell me. Tell me, or you will never see me again.”

            I hold my breath.

            Baltasar looks into my eyes. He looks at me with eyes that obviously aren’t his own, hair that’s not his own. I don’t know where he came from, or why he’s here. He swallows, his mouth trembling. I wait for him to explain, to tell me why this is happening. I wait for him to tell me it’s all going to be okay.

            “Bye, Neville,” Baltasar whispers.

            I can’t believe it. At first, I just stand here.

            Then I get angry again. He’s the one throwing this all away. Not me. This is his doing, not mine.

            “To hell with it,” I hiss.

            I apparate away from him, and I hope I never, ever set eyes on him again.

 

I am onto my third glass of firewhiskey in under an hour when someone knocks at my door. They rap too quickly and too loudly.

            I look over from my seat beneath the window. I’ve no inclination to get up. The students will nearly all be gone in a half hour, and I can spend the next two weeks licking my wounds behind the castle walls. My head is still pulsing. The alcohol is doing very little in that regard.

            The knock comes again, and I sigh. “Yes, coming.” Pushing myself up, I have to deal with the room suddenly getting a little—vague. Perhaps I’m more tipsy than expected. I’m going to deal with whoever’s on the other side of that door as quick as I can. Then I may just take my potions and lay down for bed.

            I stroke Ruby’s leaves as I pass her by, and she rustles happily. Ruby will never let me down. Ruby doesn’t lie, or make ultimatums, or act all superior. She has my back.

            I push my hair back from my face, and try to look as sober as possible when I open the door. I look down, and say with surprise, “Lavinia.”

            The girl is dressed in her winter coat, with her suitcase at her side. She looks up at me, with her jaw set, looking incredibly like her aunt. Lavinia sniffs, then says, “I had to tell you something before I left for Christmas.”

            “All right. What’s that?”

            “You’re a _hypocrite_.”

            I stare at her.

            The colour is sucked from her face. Lavinia goggles at me with wide eyes, then turns and runs off.

            I stand here, and I let the words sink in.

            Yes. Yes, I suppose I am.


	26. Chapter 26

I run into Teddy the next day. He drops from a hole in the ceiling down the hall from me. It’s not that I even recognize him, I just know that it’s him, because what other student just falls from the rafters on a regular basis?

            “Edward Lupin!”

            He freezes, both arms out. As I stride towards him, he glances side to side, as if weighing the pros and cons of trying to escape.

            Reaching him—a boy with pale blond hair and orange eyes, with a squashy nose and more freckles than the entire Weasley clan combined—I say in disbelief, “What on _earth_ are you doing here?”

            Teddy sighs, as if I’ve interrupted something. “Just…having a look about.”

            “Why are you _here_?” I clarify. “Hogwarts. Here. You should be home with your grandmother.”

            “She’s in Peru with her boyfriend.”

            “Beg pardon?”

            “Desmond. He was nice about it, he asked me first before he asked her. He wanted her to meet his grandkids, so they’re over there this Christmas. I told Nan that it was a good idea. She would have stayed, you know, but I could tell she wanted to go. She’s never been outside Britain before.”

            Teddy doesn’t talk this much unless he’s trying to distract you from something. “And you had nowhere else to go this Christmas?”

            “Didn’t want to impose, sir.”

            Flatly, I say, “You wanted the run of the castle while everyone else is gone.”

            “No. Of course not.”

            I drag my hands over my face with a groan. It’s hard enough to keep an eye on Teddy when there’s a castle full of witnesses. With the place nearly empty, Merlin only knows what he’ll get himself into.

            Dropping my arms, I say, “Teddy. I know you’re curious. I know you come from a long line of curious people. But Hogwarts isn’t always the world’s safest place. Particularly when you’re going where no one will know you are.”

            “Oh, I’m just having a poke about—”

            “ _Teddy_. There used to be a basilisk under this school that we knew nothing about. You can’t know what you’ll run into.” From the gleam in his eyes, I can tell that’s the point. “What will happen if you disappear and I have to tell your grandmother that the walls ate you?”

            “Tell her I died doing what I loved.”

            “That’s not funny,” I snap.

            Teddy pauses. He looks me over, his eyes changing to their natural brown. After a moment, he asks, “Are you all right, sir?”

            “I’m fine, I just—don’t want you to be hurt.” I take a deep breath, and bargain, “If you promise me that you will be very careful, and come to every meal, so that I know you’re still in one piece, I won’t confiscate the map.”

            He stills. The freckles abruptly disappear from his face, his nose thinning and elongating. Clearing his throat, Teddy says, “What map, sir?”

            Giving him a steady look, I say, “Every meal. If you have so much as a scratch, the exploring will cease. Understood?”

            “Yes sir.”

            “Good. Now, have the common courtesy to wait until I can’t see you before diving through that tapestry, will you?”

            Teddy glances at the wall beside us, eyes wide. “How do you know about that?”

            I roll my eyes, walking past him. “I was avoiding Death Eaters in this castle when you were the size of a mandarin, Teddy Lupin.”

 

“Are you all right?”

            I look up in surprise. “Why would you say that?”

            Hagrid lifts his shoulders and drops them, uncomfortable. We’re seated at his table, each of us with a tankard of highly alcoholic eggnog. Mippy is in my lap, tail wagging frantically.

            I pet Mippy’s fluffy head, giving my head a shake. “Everything is fine.”

            “If it wasn’t—if you needed a hand with anything—”

            “I don’t. But thank you, Hagrid. You’re very kind.”

            He nods, then brightens. “How’s that fella of yers?”

            I take a deep, deep breath.

            All of a sudden, a panel in the floor pops open. A figure leaps up, covered in dragon scales, claws extended. Hagrid roars in surprise, and I grab my wand in one hand and Mippy in the other, because what the hell is—

            The figure stops, blinking at me. “Ah—”

            “How many times do I have ter tell you!” Hagrid yells. “I’m going ter have a ‘eart attack one of these days, and who’ll be responsible?”

            I drop my wand. “ _Teddy_?”

            “Whoops,” the boy says.

 

I’m just outside the Great Hall, about to go to breakfast, when a voice says, “Longbottom.”

            I stop, and wish I hadn’t. It’s automatic. Someone says my name, I’ll stop.

            McGonagall walks up to me. I don’t look at her face. I don’t want to look at her, I don’t want to be near her. I’ve already gotten through two days of sitting with her for meals three times a day. The trick is to not look at her or speak to her.

            She clasps her hands and says quietly, “You and I need to continue our conversation from last week.”

            “We really don’t.”

            “We need to discuss—”

            “I broke it off. We’re not together anymore.”

            I don’t want her to look at me either. I understand that she is my employer, that she is a great witch, but that does very little to change my anger. I don’t care that it will take time, I just don’t want to be near her _now_.

            McGonagall says, “I’m—glad to hear that—”

            “I’m sure you are,” I mutter, and walk into the Great Hall before I can completely lose my temper.

            There aren’t that many of us, blessedly. Of the faculty, there’s myself, McGonagall, Flitwick, and Hagrid. The others have gone for the holidays. I am relieved to be away from Herman for two weeks. I’m sad that Aida is gone. I could have used an ally right now. Not that I could have spoken to her about this. Any of this.

            There are a dozen students. They’re all seated, save for—of course.

            “Has anyone seen Teddy?” I ask, walking up to the table. I get some blank stares—teenagers are unlikely to turn on one another as a unit—but some others shake their heads. I shake my head, then take a seat beside Hagrid, across from Flitwick. I scoop some sausage and potatoes and slices of tomato onto my plate, then say to Flitwick, “Do you know what Teddy did last night?”

            Flitwick taps desultorily at his soft boiled egg. It’s already been cracked, but he seems intent on getting the whole thing.

            I wait a moment, then say, “Filius.”

            He looks up, as if he’s surprised to find himself in this room. “Yes. Sorry—what were you saying, Professor?”

            “I was asking if you knew what Teddy did last night—”

            “It’s fine,” Hagrid says. “I don’t mind, not really—”

            “He popped up in the middle of Hagrid’s hut, from a hole in the floor.”

            “Did he really,” Flitwick says faintly.

            I wait for more of a response, but get none. “Do you not think that’s cause for concern?” Flitwick just sort of shrugs. This isn’t like him, I need him to be bloody engaged here. “What if he popped up in someone else’s bedroom? What if he popped up in yours?”

            At that, Flitwick sort of starts. “Excuse me,” he says, pushing back from the table.

            I look at him in disbelief, but McGonagall says, “Sit with us awhile longer, Filius.” She takes a seat at the head of the table, shaking out a napkin to lay across her lap. I just pick up my fork and take a stab at my tomatoes.

            Hagrid leans towards me. “I really don’t mind. He’s done it since he came here—”

            “A student has repeatedly broken into your home,” I say. “With the express intent of scaring the living daylights out of you.”

            “It’s just a bit o’ fun—”

            “Excuse me,” McGonagall says. “Hagrid. Are you telling me that Edward Lupin has been sneaking out of the castle to trespass in your home—for three years. And you haven’t mentioned this to anyone.”     

            Hagrid hems and haws, and McGonagall and I look at one another. At least we agree about this. “I tried to negotiate with him,” I tell her. “That might have been a mistake.”

            “I’ve always assumed he has the map.”

            “As have I.”

            “What map?” Hagrid says.

            From above us, there’s a sudden, loud scraping noise. Then there’s the sound of breaking. We all look up to see the ceiling crack through the illusion of the sky. For a moment, none of us move. But then a chunk falls, and a body comes after.

            My breath catches in my throat. I’m back in the field, and Baltasar is falling. Only this time, it’s a child, and he’s falling from the ceiling of the Great Hall, far, far higher.

            We all catch him at the same time. The children are screaming, but the four of us adults are on our feet with three wands and an umbrella pointed at the sky. Teddy is caught in mid air about half the way down, limbs splayed.

            I suck in air. My hand is shaking.

            Teddy tilts his head to look down at us. Cringing, he says, “I, uh…made it to breakfast on time, then?”

 

“Sir?”

            I drop my head down on my desk. I’ve escaped to my office to have some time to myself. To get my heart to slow down after breakfast. I just want to be alone to think and relax and to ignore everything that’s happening in my life.

            When Teddy says, “Excuse me, sir,” I can tell that he’s closer.

            So I sit back up, and he’s managed to get from the door to the desk with barely a sound. “Edward Lupin,” I say in a low voice. “This may come as a surprise, but yours is the last face I want to see.” He swallows, and I amend that a little. “Fine. Not the very last face I want to see, but in the top five.”

            I pick up my pen to continue writing in my notebook—I’ve nearly filled it after three years, stage two is nearly complete—and Teddy sits down without being asked. “I’m sorry to interrupt—”

            “I highly doubt that.”

            Teddy coughs, then says, “I…need a favour.”

            I stare at him.

            Shrinking, Teddy says, “A big favour.”

            “I…literally have no idea what to say right now.” It’s probably not the done thing to ask a fourteen-year-old if he’s lost his bloody mind.

            “McGonagall took my map.”

            No shit. “I’m shocked.”

            “I need it back.”

            I wait a moment to see if he’s also going to ask for a unicorn. When he doesn’t, I say, “Oh, since we’re aiming low.”

            “I need it,” Teddy insists. “It was my father’s.”

            “Yes. And oddly enough, I doubt your father would be thrilled by the prospect of you breaking your neck.”

            “I was just looking, I didn’t know that it would be—”

            “Teddy! If we hadn’t been there, you would have died. What then? What would happen if—do you understand that you are the last one? Your grandfather, your father, your mother—you are the last one standing, and if you don’t—”

            I put my face in my hands again. I’m projecting on a child.

            “Are…you all right?”

            “Why does everyone keep asking that?”

            “Because…you don’t seem all right.”

            I let go of my face and admit, “No. I’m not all right. In fact, I’m as far from all right as I could be, and having to deal with you nearly kicking off in the Great Hall is not helping things, Teddy.”

            “Is it the thing with Wulfric?”

            “You don’t have to worry about that—”

            “Is it the thing with Lavinia?”

            I stop. “What thing with Lavinia?”

            Teddy shrugs. “She wouldn’t talk about it. Before she went home, she said that you hated her.”

            “I do not—I do not _hate_ Lavinia, and why would—why would she have told you that?”

            He shrugs again. “We talk sometimes. Nobody else really talks to us. She’s weird. I’m weird. I told her that you don’t hate her. It would be stupid to hate Lavinia for something that happened a million years ago.”

            “Yes. Yes, it—” I prop my head up, rubbing my forehead. “Teddy. I am perplexed. You are a smart boy. Smart as anything. But sometimes, Merlin save us, you can be dumb as a post, and I don’t know how to reconcile the two.”

            “I just…I need my map.”

            “You don’t need the map, you want the map.”

            “It was his. I need it back.”

            “You nearly killed yourself and traumatized your fellow students, not to mention your professors, in the process. If I didn’t hold your father in the highest regard, I’d set that map on fire myself.”

            Teddy huffs. He’s unused to not getting his way. “If I promised—if I promised to put it away, to not even look at it—”

            “No. McGonagall took it for a reason. A reason I agree with wholeheartedly. I would chew off my own hands before asking McGonagall to give you that map. Full stop, end of discussion. There’s the door, you know what to do with it.”

            Teddy, however, doesn’t move.

            I point at the door, raising my voice. “There is the door, young man—”

            Teddy shoves himself to his feet and storms off.

           

I stew for nearly a half hour before I decide whose fault this really is.

            I get my powder and go to my fireplace. Plopping down in front of it, I take a handful of powder, and toss it into the fire.

            “Harry Potter,” I growl at it. “The bastard.”

            The fire flares green, then purple, and I’m suddenly looking into someone’s front room. There’s a large green couch with a quilt on it, and posters on the walls that don’t move. It’s dark, but I can see light coming from another room. I had forgotten how early it is there, but it looks like he’s up.

            “Hary Potter!” I shout. “Get over here this instant!”

            I hear a yelp, and the clatter of something. Someone curses.

            “Harry! I can hear you, I know you’re there. You get over here and tell me why you thought it was appropriate to give one of my students a—”

            Long legs walk infront of the fireplace, then Draco leans to his side. His white blond, curly hair hangs down, and he stares at me. “Neville?”

            I stare back, my mouth open. “Ah—hi. Hi Draco.”

            Draco takes a second to recover, then says, “What’s my idiot boyfriend done now?”

            “Ah—nothing. It’s nothing really. Did I get—is this the wrong place?”

            “No, he’s—” Draco jerks his head back, motioning down the hallway. “Still asleep. It would take a bomb to wake him up. I have to get to work, so I’m up, but he’s lazy, he’ll be asleep another few hours. Unless there’s a bomb. Or if I get him. Do you want me to get him?”

            I make him nervous. I haven’t seen him in years, and it still startles me that I make _him_ nervous. “No. No, it’s fine.”

            “What did he do?”

            “Well—you know that map he had when we were kids?”

            “Yeah,” Draco says, eyes narrowing.

            “He gave that to Teddy.”

            Draco sets his lips in a thin line. I can see the exact look he’s going to give Harry when he wakes up. I’m relieved, in a way. I would probably yell at Harry for thirty seconds and then spend another thirty minutes apologizing for it. I get the impression that Draco will put him in his place and then some.

            After taking a moment to gather himself, Draco says flatly, “Neville. I am—so sorry. My idiot boyfriend sometimes makes decisions that aren’t based on common sense so much as impulse. I will speak to him about what is and isn’t appropriate to give a child as a present. I will speak to him for a very long time. Has Teddy gotten himself in trouble?”

            “He fell out of the ceiling of the Great Hall and nearly brained himself, so—”

            “I’ll kill him,” Draco mutters. He drops down on the floor, messing up his hair and then pushing it back. “Do you ever—I feel like, I made so many foolish decisions in the past that I have to be particularly vigilant about making better choices now. Sometimes it feels like Harry wants Teddy to make some of the same stupid choices he did. I can’t stand it when adults want to live through children.”

            “I see that a lot with parents. Expectations.”

            “I heard you were teaching at Hogwarts. Congratulations. That’s quite the accomplishment.”

            “Yeah. Yeah, it’s funny—when we spoke last, you were talking so much about your kids. I didn’t really get it then. I feel like I understand a lot more now.”

            “You’re in the education trenches now.”

            “I am.”

            Neither of us say anything for a moment. Draco bites his lips, and I rub my shin. What do you say to your childhood bully? Particularly when all these years later, he’s shacked up with one of your best mates?

            “Well—” Draco says.

            “Can I—”

            I say it before I can stop myself. I cut myself off, because it’s asking too much. Draco says, “What?”

            “No. No, it’s nothing.”

            “No, can I help with something?”

            “No, you’re on your way out, it’s fine—”

            Draco raises his shoulders. “To be honest, I don’t have to be there for another hour. I…apparently have an issue with setting reasonable limitations on myself when it comes to how much I work. Says my lazy, lazy boyfriend who doesn’t open his shop until noon.” Draco pulls his legs underneath himself, looking at me expectantly. “What might I do for you?”

            Already starting to flush, I scratch at my stubble. “It’s…I have a question. And if it’s too invasive or too much or if it makes you uncomfortable, it’s all right if you can’t answer. I just…I have a problem, and I don’t know how to go about solving it. If it can be solved.”

            Instead of reassuring me, Draco simply says, “All right.”

            I find that a comfort. “What do I do about the children of Death Eaters?”

            Draco gazes at me a moment, then says, “Oh.”

            Embarrassed, I say, “I’ve talked to people about it. The thing is—they’re all on our side. I mean—the side I was on. They’re all people who—fought for the things I fought for. Or—they weren’t here at all during the war. I just…I’ve never had a chance to ask…someone who was…”

            “A Death Eater,” Draco finishes.

            “Yeah.”

            Draco pulls up his sleeves, brows furrowed. “Fuck,” he says. “To be honest, Neville, I’ve never really thought about it before. I don’t think about England at all these days.”

            I nod, saying, “Yeah, that’s fine—”

            “No, I’m not saying that I won’t answer the question, I’m just saying you’ll have to give me a minute.” Draco looks down at his left arm, then turns it to show me. Amidst all his colourful tattos is an absence. It doesn’t have to be there for me to paint it in with my mind. “Just because I don’t think about it doesn’t mean that it ever leaves.” Draco contemplates things, and I let him. “Greg’s kids will be at Hogwarts soon, won’t they.”

            “Yes.”

            “You know, I didn’t even know about him until Harry came along. I just…you’ll be going along, and then something will hit you. It all comes back and you remember all the sharp corners and…I honestly don’t know how to talk to you about this, Neville. I want to, but I also don’t want to…make things more difficult.”

            “I want your honest opinion,” I say, and it’s the truth. “I’m a grown man. The war was a long time ago, and we’re not those people anymore. It’s just affecting my world now, and…I need another perspective.”

            “Is there a student in particular, or—?”

            “Do you not read the papers?”

            Draco shudders. “Christ no. If I wasn’t legally obligated to, I wouldn’t touch the magical world with a ten foot pole. I could give a shit about their gossip rags.”

            “Well…I’ve had students of Death Eaters since I started the job. I came in with how I wanted it to be in my mind. I’d treat them just like everyone else. They weren’t responsible for their family’s crimes. And…for the most part, I was able to stick to that. It’s just…become more complicated.”

            “How?”

            “I have a Brult and a Carrow.”

            Draco doesn’t react for a moment. Then he says, “Fuck right off.”

            It’s the first that I’ve felt like smiling in days. “It’s the truth.”

            “I’m going to need the whole gory story.”

            “I don’t look good in it.”

            Draco says kindly, “Neville, none of us ever do.”

 

It takes me a solid twenty minutes of talking to tell Draco about Wulfric and Lavinia. He listens, nodding and asking a question here and there, but mostly, he lets me just get it off my chest. I can talk to him in a way that I can’t the others. He knows how it can be. He knows it in a way the others don’t.

            Once I’m done, I wait for him to deliver judgment on my decisions. I think that’s what I’m waiting for. Someone to tell me, this is where you went wrong. This is what you should have done, why didn’t you just do this one thing differently. I know that’s unreasonable, but I wish that’s how it worked.

            Draco says, “Wulfric sounds like me.”

            He looks at me, and I nod. “Yeah.”

            Draco sighs. He plays with a silver bracelet around his wrist. “That’s a tough situation, Neville. Just…across the board. But it’s not insurmountable.”

            “No?”

            “I can’t tell you that there’s one way to treat the children of Death Eaters. There isn’t a single way. I mean, it’s really well intentioned to go in there and say to yourself, I’m going to act as though the niece of the Carrows is exactly like everyone else. But that’s not true. It does a disservice to her, and to yourself. Her relatives terrorized Hogwarts, and you in particular, if I recall correctly.”

            “It’s not about that—”

            “It is. In part. Maybe a small part, but it’s a part.”

            I need a few seconds before I can admit, “I suppose.”

            “You know that there’s not one single way to approach all your students. You can go in there with some general rules. You treat them all with respect, you give them the best education you’re capable of—but beyond that, each child is different. One might not read as well as the others, they might not be able to speak up in class, they might be frustrated because they’re so far ahead of everyone else. Each child is different, and you have to approach them differently to reach them. At least, if you want to really be a teacher, and not just someone who’s putting in your hours. It’s the same with these kids. You might have one who was raised with the exact same ideology as their parents, and maybe one believes it and the next one doesn’t. Maybe the kid was raised by another family entirely. Maybe their parents were actually repentent. Maybe they’re in Azkaban. It’s never going to be the same thing for each child. I know that you have a lot of students, and it’s asking a lot of you, probably too much, to consider each one individually, but that’s what you need to do if you want to reach them. I know that you are, at your core, a good person, and that you want these children to succeed. Even if seeing them brings up painful memories. Even if their existence makes other people furious. You want these children to do well. I think that’s why you let Wulfric get away with as much as he did.”

            I give a nod. “To be honest…he reminded me so much of you. And you turned out pretty all right. I thought that if I just…hung in there. If I didn’t cave to all his baiting, maybe he’d…not change. People don’t just change overnight. At the least, I thought there might be some…recognition? Some sort of realization. But he’s…” I sigh, feeling stupid, and say, “I thought that maybe someone could save him.”

            “That’s a trap.”

            “Sorry?”

            “Kind of a mantra that I have, that’s gotten me through all these years, is—you can’t save people. You can only help them save themselves. This boy…look, he has had every opportunity. And he’s pissed on every single one. That’s not a failure on your part. That’s him making his own decisions. Sure, he’s seventeen, but…we both know that kids that age make decisions that can kill people. I used to have a really hard time with figuring out what the boundaries were. When to give up on a child. I was never able to. Sometimes I think that was a good thing. Other times, I think it wrecked me in a lot of ways. But again, it’s going to be different for people. What works for me won’t work for you. I just…don’t think you need to be as hard on yourself as you’re being.”

            “Lavinia Carrow thinks I hate her.”

            “Do you?”

            “She’s a child—”

            “Do you hate her?”

            I look at him, then shake my head. “No. Of course I don’t hate her.”

            “But?”

            “But…I dislike her. She drives me mental. And sometimes I look at her and…fuck. I know she’s not like them. I know, in my heart of hearts, she’s not anything like the rest. It’s just this irrational thing. And I hate that about myself. I don’t want to be like this. She’s a child. I keep saying that to the people around me, because I know that’s the right thing, but I just can’t make myself feel it. What’s wrong with me?”

            “We all think things that aren’t very nice. It’s just a thing humans do. Thoughts aren’t actions. Actions always speak louder than words, Neville. Because we can talk and talk and talk but it doesn’t mean a damn compared to what we actually do. Despite whatever doubts you might have, you had a moment where you lost your temper for a second, because she was going through your things. She shouldn’t have done it, and add to that all your reservations—you’re not a saint. No one expects you to be. You won’t always have the right answer. You just have to keep trying. Being a good person—it’s not always a thing you’re innately born with. I mean, you were, obviously, but—it’s a lifelong thing. It’s always trying. It’s not always doing it right. It’s the trying that counts.”

            “What would you have done?”

            “God only knows.”

            “Humour me.”

            “I would have lost my temper with Wulfric a thousand times. That’s largely why I’d never work in a formal school system. I’d be fired by the end of the week. I wouldn’t have been as kind to him as you were. I’ve worked with kids who have considerably more jagged edges than your Hogwarts students. Boys like that, they consider kindness a weakness. They consider second chances as you showing your neck. Some of them grow out of that, some of them need a good shock to mend their ways, and some don’t.”

            “And Lavinia?”

            “Again, Neville, this is all purely hypothetical.”

            “Of course.”

            “Personally, I’d have more patience for Lavinia. She’s put herself in an unwinnable situation. Away from everything she knows, trying to prove herself, everyone thinking she’s a monster. She’s a third year. With Lavinia—I mean, _I_ was able to change.” Draco waits a moment, then says, “Me. Draco Malfoy. I was able to change, even with all that I’d done. Lavinia—does she even hold the same beliefs as the rest of her family? Has she said anything? Done anything? Besides the sneaking, of course. Does she hate regulars?”

            “I—honestly don’t know.”

            “Have you ever thought of asking?”

            “No, actually.”

            “Maybe you should. Maybe you should know what she actually thinks. Maybe a lot of people should consider asking before they pass judgment on a child who wasn’t even alive during the war.”

            I pull my lips into my mouth, dropping my head. I nod again. “Of course they should. You…are absolutely right.”

            “I’m not telling you that you have to be over anything. I’m not saying that you need to like these children. I just think…they can’t all be painted with the same brush. We’re talking about two very different people here. What do Wulfric and Lavinia have in common besides a gruesome heritage?”

            “They both irritate the shit out of me.” Draco smiles crookedly, and I say, “I hear you. Thank you.”

            “Anytime.”

            “Is this—do you wish the adults in your life had taken the time to have this conversation?”

            “I don’t know that it ever occurred to them. I think people wrote me off as soon as they knew my name. I think that people still do. It doesn’t matter to me now, because I know who I am, and what I stand for. But when I was a child…” Draco raises his shoulder. “Who knows how things would have gone?”

            Right. He’s right.

            If I’m bitter now, I’m going to alienate Lavinia. Whether she believes in the traditional Carrow ideology or not, what does it say for mine if I’m willing to distance myself from a child? If I’m willing to hang onto the old grudges because I can’t recognize that we’re not always stuck in the same paths as those that came before us.

            “I will take all this into consideration. I really, really appreciate this, Draco.”

            Draco clears his throat, a touch embarrassed. “Glad to help. It’s the least I can do.”

            I suddenly realize that we’ve been talking for nearly half an hour, or rather, _I’ve_ been talking. “Blimey, I’ve rambled on, haven’t I? How are you? Happy Christmas.”

            “I’m fine. Christmas—to you as well.” He closes his eyes momentarily. “That is to say—Happy Christmas, Neville. You’ll be at the Weasleys, I presume.”

            “Ah—not this year.”

            “Oh. Is—everything all right?”

            “Well…Ginny and I have been broken up a year and a half, so…”

            “That didn’t stop Harry from attending for over a decade. No, I understand. I mean—I have no idea what that’s like, but I understand that it would be incredibly awkward. Harry would be over there if he weren’t up to his tits with work. I make fun, but he’s doing quite well. I mean, he’s still a lazy git, but…” Draco shrugs.

            I look at him and say, “You’re both happy, yeah?”

            “Yes,” Draco says without hesitation. “He is the best thing to ever happen to me. He is ridiculous and stubborn and there are times when I could strangle him with my bare hands, but he is…he makes me better than I am. And I like to think I do the same for him.” Draco pulls his head back a bit. “What did I say?”

            I let out a soft laugh. “Oh…nothing. That’s good. I’m happy for you both.”

            Draco looks uncertain. “I, ah…we haven’t spoken since he and I got together—”

            “I’m being sincere,” I rush to say. “I mean—it makes it sound like I’m not, now that I’ve said that, but it’s the truth. It was a surprise, but—the both of you were obsessed with each other for years. It’s not _that_ big of a surprise. If Harry’s happy, then I’m happy.”

            “I’m glad, it’s just…”

            “What?”

            “You…have a look on your face.”

            “Nothing. I just…have my own relationship issues at the moment.”

            “Oh! You’re seeing someone?”

            “You really don’t read the papers, do you.”

            “You couldn’t pay me enough.”

            I play with my hands, then I say, “We broke up.”

            “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

            I nod, then I say, “For the best. We weren’t really…compatible.”

            Draco nods, then furrows his brows. “Not to, you know, pry or anything, but if you could be any more unconvincing, I’d be shocked.”

            “It’s just for the best.” I look at him, then insist, “It is.”

            “All right. If you say so. Um…it’s a pity. She obviously doesn’t know what she’s missing.”

            “He.”

            “Beg pardon?”

            “He.”

            Draco stares at me, then says, “Does Ginny Weasley just turn every man that she touches queer?” I cover my mouth with both hands, eyes widening. “That school boyfriend of hers, what was his name? Dean? Isn’t he married to a man as well? Then Harry, now you—who in that bloody school was straight?”

            “Ron and Hermione?” I say weakly.

            “At this point, I don’t believe it for a second. Everyone in that woman’s radius is just immediately a little bit queer.” Draco spreads his hands and says, “ _He_ obviously doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

            “It—it wasn’t like that.”

            “So I should just shut up about this, is what you’re telling me.”

            “Not in so many words.”

            “Message received. Just in time for Christmas, then.”

            “Just in time for Christmas,” I echo. I lower my head.

            “Neville?”

            “Yes?”

            Draco smiles at me, and says, “If you and I can sit here and discuss, even in passing, your romantic woes, then I feel quite good about the world’s chances.”

            I think about it, then I smile. “You know—so do I.”

 

Lunch is quiet.

            It’s Christmas Eve. We should be celebrating. Last year, we all chatted through meals, and we embarrassed the kids, and we had a grand time. This year, we are very, very…quiet.

            I eat without looking up from my plate. I felt good after talking to Draco. Then I walked back into this room, and that basically evaporated.

            Teddy is, blessedly, in one piece. He’s glowering at his plate. It wouldn’t shock me if he tried to liberate the map from McGonagall’s office. If any person in this castle knew a secret way into the most secure room in the castle, it would be him.

            McGonagall can look after it. She’s taking small, measured sips of soup. I really, really need to just get through this meal and then I can go to the greenhouse and putter.

            I’ve half a mind to take off to the Weasleys. They wouldn’t mind if I showed up. The truth is, I think they would be pleased. Molly was so disappointed when I said I wouldn’t be coming. She put on a good face about it, but I know she worries.

            Ginny will be there. I could see Ginny.

            We could talk.

            We all glance upward as an owl enters the hall. I know it on sight. The snowy owl with the scar across its right eye circles us once, then drops an envelope at my head.

            I catch it from the air, one handed. There’s no name or address on the outside, but there wouldn’t be. I’d know Aberforth’s owl anywhere.

            I hesitate. I haven’t heard anything in days. I haven’t wanted to hear anything. I just haven’t wanted to think about it. If I don’t think about it, maybe it will go away.

            That’s cowardly, and I am not a coward. Putting my doubts aside, I open the envelope, and take out the slip of paper inside. Aberforth has written all of two sentences, and not even signed it.

            ‘Hope you’re pleased with yourself. He’s leaving.’


	27. Chapter 27

I shove back from the table, standing. I do it so quickly that my chair falls over. I don’t care, I have to—

            Fucking hell, what have I done?

            I need to find him. I don’t know what I thought would happen, of course he would leave, it’s a miracle it took him this long to go. He was probably waiting for me to apologize, and I didn’t, I let him think that I meant what I said, and I didn’t. Of course I didn’t.

            I walk away from the table, listing what I have to do. I have to get a broom. I have to ride faster than I ever have in my life, because it won’t take Baltasar long to leave now that he’s made the decision. If I don’t get there fast, I’ll lose him. He’ll disappear, and I will never see him again.

            I’ll get exactly what I asked for.

            “Professor Longbottom!”

            “I can’t stay, I have to go—”

            “Neville, stop this _instant_.”

            I can’t afford this. I need to get to Hogsmeade this very second. Only the doors slam shut.

            I turn, wide eyed, as McGonagall strides towards me. Her lips are in a thin line, and she’s glaring daggers at me. Lowering her voice, she says, “You will not be going anywhere.”

            “He’s leaving, I need to find him—”

            “No. You need to hear what I have say. You are letting your heart rule you instead of your brain, and it might get you killed. This isn’t what Hogwarts needs—”

            “I don’t care what Hogwarts needs!”

            McGonagall pales. I can see everyone staring at us, but I don’t care. The only thing I care about is about to leave me forever, and it will be all my fault. McGonagall regains her composure, and drops her voice even further. “This is unprofessional—”

            “I don’t care,” I repeat, looming over her. “I don’t care how this reflects on Hogwarts, or you, or any of it. He’s leaving, and I refuse to let him. Keep out of my way.”

            I try to turn, but McGonagall insists, “He doesn’t care about you, Neville. It’s all a ruse—you must see that. It couldn’t be anything else!”

            “You think that because you’ve never been in love!” I shout. McGonagall steps back, and I shake my head. “ _You_ —you think that just because no one has ever loved you, that no one else could possibly ever be loved. You decided to give every single piece of yourself to this place, and it’s not my fault that you hate that. You chose this instead of everything else, and I refuse to make the same mistakes as you did! So don’t you dare try and make me choose between this place and him. Because right now, he will win.”

            McGonagall gazes up at me and says, “He doesn’t really love you.”

            “You wouldn’t know what love is if it bit you in the face. I’m leaving. If you try and stop me, so help me, it will not end well.”

            I turn and walk away. When I get to the doors, I pull them open, and I go.

 

I come down outside of The Boar’s Head at so fast a speed that I know I’ll crash. It’s an inevitability. I’ve never ridden a broom so fast in my life. My eyes are leaking tears from the cold and my nose is running and my face must be bright red. I was able to grab my winter cloak from the greenhouse, but not much else.

            I pull up to try and slow myself, but I over correct. I go straight up and then arch backwards. Here I go—

            I drop onto my back into the snow. There’s a fresh layer of it from last night. It doesn’t cushion me much, but it’s better than nothing. I see the broom go diving off down the street.

            No matter. Scrambling to my feet, I jog to the front door, and I struggle to catch my breath. I’m dizzy, but I’m on my feet. That’s what counts. I yank the door open, and fall inside.

            There’s one customer, hidden beneath rags. Aberforth stands behind the counter, his arms crossed. He’s not even pretending to do anything, just staring at the door, waiting for me. He scowls at the sight of me. “Took your precious time, didn’t you.”

            I try to reply, but my first word is just a squeak. I swallow, then rasp, “Is he—is he still here?”

            We both look towards the staircase as the sound of footsteps bound down it. Baltasar emerges at the bottom, looking at coins in his hand. His rucksack is full to bursting, his hair carefully done back in French braids. He’s still only in his denim jacket, and I remember that I have his Christmas present shrunk down in the pocket of my winter robes.

            He lifts his head to speak to Aberforth, and catches sight of me. He stops, gazing at me. I look for any sign of relief, any happiness to see me.

            There’s none. Dread seaps into his expression.

            Baltasar looks down, quickly thinking. He walks over to the bar, and starts laying down coins. “Fuck you for putting me in this situation,” he says quietly to Aberforth. “But you’ve been surprisingly kind to me these past few months. Particularly for a goatfucker.”

            “You’re not too terrible yourself. For a red headed sodomite.”

            Baltasar nods, then pushes the coins across the counter. He puts the rest in his pocket before putting his head down and walking towards the door.

            I quickly move forward, trying to get in front of him. “Baltasar—”

            “Get away from me,” Baltasar says, putting his hands up and shying away.

            I dodge in front of him, hands out to the side. Blocking him a bit. “I’m sorry, all right? I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for everything—”

            “I don’t care, I need to go—”

            I step forward and he steps back, drawing up into himself. He won’t look at me. He always looks people in the eyes. If he won’t look at me, what does that mean?

            It means you’ve bloody lost him, you fool. But I can’t accept that. I won’t accept that.

            Lowering my voice, I say desperately, “I should never have listened to her. I shouldn’t have let what other people say get into my head like that. I know what’s important, and that’s you. I am so sorry I lost sight of that.”

            Baltasar looks down at the ground, shaking his head. His face is blank, like he’s refusing to let in a single word I say.

            “Please—I will do anything to prove to you—don’t go. Don’t go, just because I made a stupid mistake. You mean the world to me, and you were right, I’ve been under a lot of stress, and I took it out on you, and that was a shit thing to do, and I am so, so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you—not your wrist, not your feelings, none of it.” I look at him, and I refuse to believe that this is futile, but I’ve got the most terrible sinking feeling in my stomach. “Baltasar—it was a mistake. Mistakes can be forgiven, can’t they?”

            At that, he abruptly snakes around me. I grab his arm, but he throws me off. “Goodbye, Neville,” Baltasar says.

            “No—”

            I follow him out the door. Baltasar starts walking briskly towards the center of town, his head down.

            “Would you—”

            “Stop following me.”

            “I’m not going to do that.”

            “It’s over, Neville. Just let it go. I don’t want this, and I don’t want you.”

            “I don’t believe you.”

            “It doesn’t matter.”

            “It—” I take a few running steps to reach his side. Baltasar still refuses to raise his eyes from the ground. Leaning down, trying to force his gaze, I say, “It _matters_. It matters to me, it matters to you. I don’t know what was wrong with me—you’re the best thing to happen to me in a long time, and I just—I had a funny turn. With everything that’s happening—would you just stop and look at me?”

            “I’m not stopping. I’m leaving.”

            “To where?” I exclaim.

            “I don’t know. Anywhere but here. Wherever the first portkey will take me. Stop following me. I don’t want you. I’m done.”

            “Don’t say that—” I touch his arm, and Baltasar jerks it out of my grasp. “Baltasar—”

            “Go back to the castle. Go live your life. Forget that any of this ever happened.”

            “I don’t—” He quickens his step, getting in front of me.

            I stop a moment, trying to figure out what I should do.

            Fuck it.

            I catch up with him, and I throw my arms around him from behind.

            Baltasar stops in surprise, then starts to fight against my grip. “What are you—stop it—”

            But I’m stronger than him. I hold him tighter, and he goes still. “I won’t let you go,” I whisper. “I can’t let you go. I can’t let you go thinking that I don’t care about you.” Baltasar shakes his head. I bury my face against his hair. I don’t care that it’s the middle of the day on Christmas Eve, in Hogsmeade. I don’t care that people are watching. “I can’t let you go.”

            “I don’t want this,” Baltasar says.

            “I know you want me. I know you stayed for me. I don’t think you’ve ever stayed for anyone, but you stayed for me. That’s special, and I know that’s special. You’re the one good thing in my life right now, and I refuse to fuck that up so badly that you just leave. I can’t let you leave me.” He’s still shaking his head, not fighting. He’s trying to outlast me, but I can’t let him go. I hold him close and I say, “I love you.”

            Baltasar jams a sharp elbow back against my ribs, nearly breaking free of my grasp. “ _Stop_ it,” he cries out.

            He struggles, but I wrap my arms around him so tightly, nearly lifting him off the ground to keep him close to me. “I mean it,” I tell him. “I’m not saying it to make you stay, I’m saying it because it’s true. I love you. I love you. Baltasar Byquist, I love you.”

            Baltasar starts leaning forward. It gets so much that I feel like I’m holding him up. “Stop,” he pleads.

            “I don’t care what your name is,” I whisper. “If you tell me it’s Baltasar Byquist, then that’s what it is. I don’t care what you did, or where you came from. What’s important is that you’re here with me now. I believe you. I believe in you. I love you. I love you. Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me.”

            He’s hanging over my arms, swaying. He makes a low, keening noise, then his shoulders begin trembling.

            Taken aback, I say, “Sweetheart—oh love, please don’t.”

            Baltasar leans forward, starting to cry. The fight has left him entirely.

            I turn him around, so that he can fall against me. I hold him to my chest, protective, and kiss his hair. “Sweetheart—don’t cry. I’m sorry. Please don’t cry.”

            He rests his face against my shoulder and weeps.

            I look around. All kinds of people have stopped their last minute shopping to look at us. I don’t care what they think of me. I need to protect him.

            I hold him close, and I apparate us both away.

 

We appear outside the front door of the cottage. I can feel him starting to crumple, so I pick him up. I put an arm under his legs and an arm around his back, and I carry him to the front door. The latch is for shit, always has been, so I just give it a light kick, and the door pops open.

            The inside has been stripped bare. There’s a wooden bedframe left, but nothing else. I push the door shut with my rear end, then take Baltasar to the bed. I sit down on the edge. I adjust him on my lap, trying to make him comfortable.

            I’ve hurt him. I’ve hurt him terribly if I’ve brought him to this.

            He doesn’t sob, or make much noise at all. He’s just lost all the tension in his body, and he’s weeping softly, steadily, barely aware that I’m even here. I keep him pinned to me, and I stroke his hair. His beautiful hair. I love it down, or tied back, or in these neat, graceful braids.

            I have been so foolish. From the moment he arrived here. I didn’t want to believe that a man like Baltasar could ever really want me, so I kept him at a distance. I did, even when I thought I didn’t. I treated him like nothing more than a bedmate, when he came all the way up here just to be with me. When he stayed to meet me at any level I was willing to give. He was here for me when my father died. He has listened to all my stories, all my woes. I treated him like something that wouldn’t last, and I’m not even sure why.

            It’s because he’s not Ginny.

            He’s not the person I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with. He doesn’t fit into the neat little narrative that everyone—myself included—has constructed for me. Neville Longbottom, not much as a child, who proved himself in battle, who went on to lead the school he helped save. That’s a good story.

            Neville Longbottom, the man who ran off with some Canadian who did tricks for Muggles—it doesn’t have quiet the same ring. It sounds like missed opportunities, and selfishness, and regrets.

            And still…

            I love Hogwarts. It’s my home. The first place I felt wanted, where I felt like my atoms were part of the walls. I love teaching. I love my students, and the future that I could build there.

            But would it make me happy?

            If I stay at Hogwarts, I will end up alone. Just like every other person who works there. Hogwarts isn’t a job, it’s a complete and utter commitment. I have to be willing to give myself away entirely if I want to succeed there. I will have to give my entire life to Hogwarts.

            Baltasar isn’t asking me to give him everything. He’s never asked me for anything, he’s only offered me things. With him, I could choose the shape of my life. This is so new, this thing between us, but the possibilities…the possibilities with him are _endless_.

            Hogwarts is the reality. Baltasar is the dream. Why can’t I dream?

            I run my hand over his cheek. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

            He shakes his head, taking a handful of my shirt.

            I slip my thumb under his chin, tilting his head up. I look at his wet eyes, and I say, “I meant what I said. I love you. I’m not saying it to make you stay. I’m not saying it because you want to leave. I’m saying it because I will hate myself for the rest of my life if I didn’t tell you.”

            Baltasar closes his eyes, letting out a shaky breath.

            “Do you want to leave?”

            He cringes. More tears course from his eyes.

            Finally, Baltasar gives his head a shake.

            “Do you want to stay here with me?”

            A single nod.

            “Then stay. Stay with me.”

            He wraps both arms around my neck. Burying his face against my neck, I feel Baltasar’s shallow breaths against my skin. I rub his back, brimming with worry and tenderness for this man. Sometimes the best things in life are unexpected.

            “I know you don’t want to live in Hogsmeade forever. I know it’s not reasonable to ask you that. To be honest, I don’t know if I’m even welcome back at Hogwarts after the things I just said to McGonagall. In front of a crowd, no less. I may even be out of a job. I don’t know what happens next. If you landed on me because of the glamour that comes with dating a professor of herbology, you might be out of luck.” I hug him, and say, “But I’m more than just a professor. I’m going to do big things. Regardless of what people think, they’ll be staggered when they see what I can accomplish. That’s not just puffing myself up. It’s the truth.”

            I silence as he puts his fingertips to my lips. I can taste the salt of his tears. Taking his hand, I give his fingers a kiss. All right. No talking. We can just sit. We can sit together. He fits on my lap so nicely. And I am so relieved to have him in my arms.

           

Some time passes. I hold him, and slowly, the sound of tears fades. Baltasar lays his head on my shoulder. I keep one of his hands in mine, and run my thumb up and down his side.

            He’s mine. Whatever happens to us next, he’s mine.

            Baltasar shifts, and I wait to see what he does. He lifts his head. Those blue eyes fasten on mine. He looks dreadful. Face blotchy. Eyes swollen. Damp. He also looks so beautiful that it breaks my heart.

            As the seconds go by, I let him look at me, and I look at him. I love this man. I love him dearly. I didn’t know that I would ever fall in love again.

            He reaches up, laying his hand against my face. I rest against it. He can be such a pain in the arse. He’s sarcastic, and sharp, and I can’t say that I’m entirely comfortable with all the secrets he seems to have. But I would rather take the chance. Because Baltasar is also extraordinary. If he’ll allow me to keep him, I will.

            Baltasar touches my face, watching me. I smile slightly, and run the backs of my fingers over his cheek, brushing away some of those tears. He leans into the touch.

            When he pushes himself up, I let him kiss me. His lips have a feather touch at first, and there is that taste of salt again. I lean towards him, kissing his mouth. I want him. I want him in all ways.

            His fingers move up into my hair. I lift him higher. He shifts so that he’s kneeling on my lap, and he puts both arms around my neck. His knees dig into my thighs. I hold him in place, kissing him, feeling his slight form.

            The pain in my thighs becomes too much, and so I lift him, setting him down on the bed. Baltasar pets my face, looking into my eyes in the seconds that we’re parted. I bend forward, tongue slipping against his lips. He bites at it, softly, one of his legs draped across my lap.

            His hand moves down to my robes. I feel him tug at it. Taking the hint, I slip them over my shoulders. He’s already got the bottom of my shirt in his hands, pulling at that as well. I strip that off, then I go for his jacket.

            We take off our clothes, slow, careful with each other. It’s never been like this before between us. There’s this fragile thing hanging in the air. I don’t know if it might break, or explode. Each touch, each caress, each breath taken against skin.

            When we’re both naked, Baltasar stops me. He hesitates, then says, “You should put up a shield.”

            It takes me a moment. But then I remember our last day, in the cottage by the sea. We took it down together, and that was nowhere near this. Nodding, I take out my wand, and point to the walls. “ _Protego_.”

            They shimmer around us. I draw the wand down over the floor as well. I point to everything that is not us, even the bed. When the cottage shimmers around us, I put my wand down on my robes. Baltasar lies back, pulling me with him.

            I lie atop him, propping myself over him so that I don’t crush him. I gaze down at his face.

            “Say it again,” Baltasar whispers.

            I don’t have to ask him what he means. “I love you.”

            He closes his eyes a moment. And when they open, they’re not blue. They’re orange, like flame. He pushes himself up, reaching up his hand. Flickers of fire lick along his fingers. I pause, but then I tilt my head downwards.

            “You’ll burn,” Baltasar warns.

            “Then let’s burn.”

            He threads his fingers through my hair, and I can hear a crackle, but I feel no pain, only a building heat. His hair unplaits itself, and flames begin dancing amid the strands.

            “Last chance. When I’m not in control…”

            I shake my head.          

            Baltasar takes a breath, then the air fills with the scent of burning. He gives himself up to me, and his mouth tastes of smoke and ashes.

            We burn together, and I burn for him.


	28. Chapter 28

It’s not very late. The sun went down awhile ago. We haven’t said much to one another. We spent the afternoon and the early evening in bed. I drifted off for awhile, but I woke when Baltasar gave me a shake. He wanted to make the bed.

            He took sheets and his quilt from his bag, and we made the bed together. I transfigured an old piece of wood into a mattress. It looks warm and comforting. We give each other smiles, then climb back into bed with one another.

            I’m singed, but not hurt. I’m not entirely sure how to put into words what I saw. I’ve never seen a person do that. I didn’t know he could.

            We settle down, face to face with one another. Far too pleased with ourselves. I tug the blanket up his shoulder so that he’s covered.

            But then Baltasar lets out a sigh. He says, “I don’t want you to leave here for me.”

            “It seems to be one or the other.”

            “No. You know I’d never ask you to—”

            “I know you wouldn’t. McGonagall’s just made it clear that I either spend the rest of my life pretending to be a eunuch or leave. I’m not welcome there if I want to be happy in my personal life.”

            “That’s idiotic.”

            “It’s tradition,” I say grandly.

            “Your traditions suck.”

            “They do. I’m not willing to sacrifice…I mean, don’t get me wrong. You are very, very important to me. And I love working at the school. But those aren’t the only things that matter to me. I spent years being my own employer. I could leave when I wanted, go where I wanted. I travelled the world. I had adventures. I was able to see my friends and family when I wanted. The truth is, my life was considerably more well rounded before I agreed to work at Hogwarts. I didn’t intend to work there forever. A few years…then I was supposed to go back into the private sector and marry Ginny and have half a dozen red headed children. That bit didn’t work out, but…everyone besides me has just assumed that I’ll stay there forever. And I suppose I started to believe them. The truth is, I’m thirty-two. I don’t have to be stuck in one place if I don’t want to. In fact…the idea of being stuck in one place until I die, doing the same thing…it’s a bit bleak.”

            Reluctantly, Baltasar says, “Neville…we’ve only been dating for two months.”

            “I know. I know I’m moving quickly here. I’m not asking you to…give up anything for me. I’m not asking you to tether your ship to mine. Just because I’m in love with you doesn’t mean you have to be there yet. Or ever. But if I decide to leave Hogwarts, it’s not only for you. I wouldn’t put that kind of pressure on you. You’d be a piece, but…it would be for me.”

            “You love your job.”

            “I do. And I loved my old job. And I have other ideas as well. I’ve worked on plenty of things over the years, and maybe it’s time to finally move forward with that.”

            “I just…it’s a lot.”

            “Yeah. Yeah, I know.” I rub my hand over his shoulder. “We don’t have to decide anything right now. There’s time. Let’s…let’s spend Christmas here together. You and me. How about that?”

            “You don’t want to spend Christmas here with me—”

            “Yes I do.”

            “Come on. You’ve got Christmas at the school, or that—weird, incestuous, can’t let go of the past thing you’ve got going on with your ex’s family.”

            Smirking, I say, “Sensitive as always.”

            “Sensitive is my middle name.”

            “I mean, for all I know, it could be.”

            “I _told_ you—”

            “I believe you,” I rush to say. “I believe you. I guess that joke was too soon.”

            Baltasar grimaces, and sticks his hand up beneath his pillow. “I haven’t…I’ve made a lot of mistakes, Neville. The kind that maybe I can’t be forgiven for.”

            “Well—if you ever want to tell me about that, I’ll be all ears.” He nods, and I hesitate. “Listen…no pressure. If you’re not ready to say it, that’s fine. Or if you’re not even sure if you do, that’s fine as well. But I want to really make sure you know, I didn’t say that I love you just to keep you from leaving. I really do love you.”

            Baltasar listens to me, then thinks about it. He gives a small smile, a sad smile, and says, “It’s been a long, long time since someone loved me.”

            I want to ask him what he means, but he scoots over. He pushes me onto my back, so that he can take his usual position, draped over my chest. Baltasar pulls my arm across his body, and settles in to sleep.

            I adjust him so that I’m a little more comfortable, then I ask, “Christmas together?”

            “If you want,” Baltasar whispers.

            “I do.”

            “Then okay. Christmas together.”

 

“All right,” I say. “You might think this is ridiculous.”

            Baltasar holds his hands out. “Shut up and give me my present.”

            Rolling my eyes, I put the parcel into his hands. It was completely coincidence that I had it with me. I bought it in Hogsmeade weeks ago and promptly forgot it was in my pocket. I take a seat in front of him on the floor.

            We slept late. I don’t know what happened. We fell asleep early and just stayed asleep straight through the night. It’s not light yet, but it will be soon. I am going to spend Christmas Day with Baltasar Byquist, and it’s one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.

            “You certainly didn’t wrap this yourself.”

            “Ye of little faith.”

            Baltasar gives me a knowing eye, then tears a strip away from the paper. He furrows his brows, then tears it again. His face clears, then he says in disbelief, “You didn’t.”

            “You are thirty-five years old and dress like you’re a teenager.” He pulls the robes away from the paper, and I say, “If they’re not your size, tell me. I can get them hemmed.”

            “I’m not that short, you asshole.” Baltasar rests the heavy winter robes in his lap. He runs his thumbs over the black fabric. I hope like hell it’s good quality. The lady in the store said they were, and they cost more than any article of clothing I’ve ever bought for myself. He looks at me with a raised brow. “If you thought I looked like a dark wizard before.”

            “Oh, get away.”

            “That’s why I don’t wear black. I look like I’m about to kill someone.”

            I falter. “I can—exchange them—”

            “No, don’t do that. I love it. You just can’t refuse to be seen with me if someone calls the Aurors, thinking I look like I’m about to hex someone.” Baltasar smiles at me, affectionate. “This was really thoughtful. Thank you.”

            “My pleasure.”

            Putting aside the robes, Baltasar shuffles over to me on his knees. Resting his elbows on my shoulder, he gives me a warm kiss. “Why the fuck are you so sweet to me?”

            “Because I know you’re so unused to it that it scares the stuffing out of you.”

            He smacks me across the chest, then falls back onto the ground. He pushes himself back to where he was sitting before, and hooks his arms around his shins, wiggling his bare toes.

            “Um…”

            “It’s okay if you didn’t get me anything. Or if you did and then set it on fire when I was being such a prick—”

            “No, I…I got you something, I just…I’m not sure…you’ll be into it.”

            “Is it a sex thing? Because I feel like I’ve proven on more than one occasion that I can be quite adventurous.”

            “You can, and it’s not that.” Baltasar licks his lips, then leans over, almost horizontal, to rummage around in his bag. He pulls out a small box. It’s wrapped in a cheery red bow that I doubt he put there. Chewing on his lip, he holds it out to me. “Here.”

            “Try not to seem so thrilled.”

            I go to take it, but Baltasar snaps his fingers. The box disappears. “Changed my mind.”

            “Come on.”

            He sighs through his nose, then snaps his fingers again. The box reappears. I snatch it from him before he can change his mind. Baltasar sits back, his mouth twisted.

            I slip off the ribbon. I’m excited to see what he’s gotten me. I know there will be presents waiting back on my bed, but I can’t remember Baltasar ever getting me a present before. Whatever it is, I know it will be—

            I lift off the lid, and pause.

            “You hate it,” Baltasar says immediately.

            “No! No, I—” I blink a few times, then lift the delicate silver chain from a little pad of stuffing. There’s a small, circular pendant hung from it. Setting the box aside, I try to figure out what to say.

            “You _hate_ it.”

            “No, now stop it.” I hold the fragile necklace in my large hand, and I am still struggling with what I should say. “You got me…jewelry.”

            “Yep.”

            “No one…has ever gotten me jewelry. I don’t think.”

            Baltasar holds out his hand. “If you don’t like it, just give it back—”

            “I do like it, now stop being hysterical.”

            “I _beg_ your pardon.”

            There’s something engraved on it. I tilt the pendant towards the light. A circle has been etched in it, divided into four quarters. “What’s that? You have a shirt with this symbol, don’t you?”

            “You remembered.”

            “Don’t sound so surprised. I might not be a fashion plate, but once I’ve taken a thing off you with my teeth, I have a tendency to remember it.” I tilt the pendant side to side. “What is it?”

            “A medicine wheel.”

            “What’s that?”

            “Well…” Baltasar pushes himself closer. He takes my hand, positioning it so that he can point to the quadrants. “A lot of things in life are divided into fours, right? Birth, adolescence, adulthood, old age. The four seasons. The four directions. It can mean a lot of things, depending on what you want it to.”

            “Where did you find this?”

            “It’s…it’s mine.” Baltasar moves back slightly, trying to look nonchalant. “I’ve had it a really long time, and…it’s important to me. So I wanted to give it to you.” A smile stretches across my face. “What?” Baltasar mutters.

            “That’s so sweet.”

            “It’s a trinket.”

            “It’s important to you. So I suppose that means I’m important to you as well.”

            “You’re fine, when I don’t have to look at your face.”

            I hold the necklace out to him. “Can you do the latch? I’ll probably just break it.”

            Baltasar nods. He gets back on his knees, holding the latch up to his eyes. It’s a tiny, delicate thing. If I ever try to take it off with my clumsy fingers, I’ll likely tear it in two. Baltasar brings the chain around my neck, then leans forward to look over my shoulder. I take the opportunity to study the curve where his neck becomes his back.

            He pulls away, forcing himself to meet my eyes.

            I grab him in both arms and dip him back. Baltasar shrieks. I kiss his neck, over and over until he giggles.

 

We have a snowball fight, and he is shockingly dreadful at it.

            “You’re Canadian!” I shout after I knock him off his feet with a snowball to the chest.

            Baltasar staggers back up, wiping away snow. “You don’t understand! I didn’t grow up around other kids. You think my grandmother was out there playing with me?”

            “This is pathetic.”

            “Fuck you.” He leans down, packing a handful of snow together. By that point, though, I’ve already compacted another one. I pitch it at him, easily hitting him in the side. Baltasar squawks and nearly falls again. “Neville! I’ll set you on fire!”

            “I’m shaking. Can you even hit me with that thing?”

            “You know which cocky motherfucker isn’t getting his dick sucked tonight? Take a wild goddamn guess, hobbit.”

            Setting my feet apart, I spread my arms. “I’ll give you a handicap. I will literally stand here, and not move, and you can try and hit me.”

            “I swear to God—”

            “I mean it. I won’t move a muscle.”

            Baltasar glares at me, then he begins busily packing a snowball together. I have to smother a smile. He looks dead serious about the whole endeavour. I can’t believe I finally found something that he’s genuinely awful at.

            I think that he’s going to throw it at me, but he stomps across the snow towards me. I raise a brow when he walks right up to me with his small snowball. Baltasar gets about two steps from me, then lobs the snowball at my chest. I barely feel it. It drops sadly to the ground. “Fuck you,” Baltasar says peevishly.

            I start to grin, but his arms shoot out. I pitch backwards on my arse, arms flailing.

            I hear Baltasar call back, “I win!” as he runs away.

            The cheek. I fight to get back on my feet, then chase after him. I get the distinct impression that he slows his step just to taunt me.

 

“You see this?” Baltasar says, walking backwards until he hits the wall.

            I look to where his finger is pointing. “I do,” I say.

            “So you see it.”

            “I see it. It’s quite handsome.”

            “Well, there seems to be a problem.”

            “What ever could that be?”

            “It’s not in your mouth.”

            I bite down into my smile. He crooks a finger, beckoning me over. I crawl across the floor to him, knowing I probably look ridiculous. Naked as the day I was born, flushed from fighting in the snow, hair damp. Baltasar looks amused, but not in an unkind way.

            When I kneel in front of him, he pushes his hands down over my shoulders, then brushes my hair back from my face. I stroke my nose against his thigh, then I take the whole of his prick into my mouth.

            I’m good at this bit. I mean, I didn’t get to do this more than once or twice in the past twelve years, but I’m happy to say I don’t seem to have lost any skills. I like when it’s this way. When it’s just me making him pleased. I feel confident. I feel good.

            He seems to feel good as well. I hear him let out that breathy moan he only gives when it’s him in my mouth. Baltasar pets my hair and murmurs, “Merry Christmas.”

            Nodding, I break away long enough to echo, “Happy Christmas.”

            I move back in, but Baltasar pinches my shoulders. “No, don’t start with that. It’s Merry Christmas.”

            “No, it’s Happy Christmas.”

            “God, why do you have to be so English,” Baltasar mutters, cupping a hand to the back of my head and pulling me back against his body.

            “I’m sorry,” I say, nuzzling against his prick, “but it’s an English holiday.”

            He puts a hand on my forehead, pushing my head back. “Wait. Why don’t you tell me a little more about Jesus Christ, legendary Englishman?”

            “Seriously?” I say, glancing at his prick meaningfully.

            “I don’t know if I want to be blown by a man who thinks that Christmas is an English holiday. Where’s Bethlehem again? Just a hop, skip, and a jump from Birmingham?”

            “Actually, it’s not that far from Sheffield.”

            “I mean, I was attracted to you until I learned that you have no grasp of history.”

            Nodding, I kiss his cock. “Yes, I’m terribly uneducated.”

            “He was Middle Eastern.”

            “Who?”

            “Jesus.”

            “You like that, then,” I say, giving his cock another kiss.

            “I was saying his name, not—oh. Fuck, Neville.”

            “Not often I get a good look at it up close in the daylight.”

            “Don’t think I’m letting this go. Do you think that Mary and Joseph celebrated their son’s birth with blood pudding?”

            “Don’t be foolish. It would be a Christmas pudding.” I tilt my head, and say, “What’s this?”

            “What?” Baltasar says, sounding alarmed. “Do I have a mole down there that’s growing or something?”

            “No, just—” I run my fingertip over what looks like a very tiny divot on the underside of his prick. “It looks like—do you have a scar here?”

            “Yeah, it used to be pierced.”

            Repulsed, I say, “It _what_?”

            “I used to have a ring there.” Baltasar looks at me as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. I just stare at him with jaw agape. He rolls his eyes and says, “If your mouth’s gonna be open like that, you might as well put it to use—”

            “Why would you _do_ that?”

            “I was twenty-two. It’s fine. People do that, Neville. They get piercings there.”

            “Get away with you. Is this some Muggle thing?”

            “You are such an old man.”

            I poke at the scar, shaking my head. “What on earth.”

            “Oh my God. This is officially the worst blowjob I’ve ever had.”

            “It’s all your own fault. I was committed, and then you wanted to get all anti-English—”

            “Excuse me for not being turned on by your colonialist attitudes—”

            “Do you want to come or not?”

            “Say Merry Christmas.”

            “Happy Christmas,” I reply defiantly.

            “So help me, I’ll just sit on your face to shut you up.”

            “Then it will be a Happy Christmas indeed—”

            He pounces on me with a laugh, rolling me over onto the floor.

 

I toss an almond to Baltasar, and he catches it in his mouth. He lines up a chocolate sweet, and throws it to me. I have to duck, but I get it with my mouth as well. From the look on his face, I can tell he’s both surprised and a bit proud.

            “What sort of traditions did you have when you were little?”

            “You mean traditions for this English holiday—”

            “I was _teasing_ —”

            “This is antisemitism at its basest form, I’ll have you know.”

            “What’s that?”

            Baltasar pauses. I wait for him to explain, but he takes a deep breath. “We’ll unpack that later. Christmas traditions in the Byquist household. Well—turkey was a must. Always too dry. We’d celebrate on Christmas Eve, not Christmas Day. We’d all get up early on Christmas Day and stargaze. It wasn’t a big production or anything. What about you?”

            “Same thing every year. Hardy English breakfast, open presents, take the Floo down to London, see my parents, come home, help Gran cook dinner, eat dinner—goose, obviously—help clean up, and then sit and look through the photo album at all the Longbottom Christmases of past.” Baltasar is giving me a look. “What?”

            “Nothing, just—did you want to see your mom?”

            “What? No. I mean—it’s fine.”

            “I didn’t mean to keep you away from her. We can still go.”

            “No, it’s really fine—”

            “We could go,” Baltasar says. “You and me. We could go down to London. Right now. You could see your mom, and then we could spend the rest of the holidays there if you wanted. We could do New Years Eve in London. What about that?”

            “You are—very sweet. But to be honest—I just want to spend today here with you.”

            Baltasar nods, looking a touch dejected. “For sure.”

            “It’s not a bad idea—”

            “No, it’s cool—”

            “We can talk about New Years’ tomorrow? London sounds like a good idea. Right now, though, I just want to…be here with you.”

            Baltasar nods again. He looks at me from under his brows and says, “First Christmas without your dad.”

            I fiddle with another almond, considering whether to tell him. “Tell you something terrible. I’m relieved. To not be there. To finally have a Christmas not in that place. I know…she’s my mum, and he was my dad, but I just…I don’t think I feel about them the way I’m supposed to. I’m expected to be the good son, and carry on like I’ve ever known them, but…I haven’t. I love them, and I appreciate all they did for me, but…I mean, I’m sad that Dad died, you know that.”

            “I didn’t say any different—”

            “I know. I just…have complicated feelings about it all, and I don’t feel like I have to pretend otherwise to you. They were good people, but…all I’ve ever known are shells. I’m relieved that I don’t have to sit there on Christmas Day and pretend like they’ve ever been anything else to me.”

            Baltasar gives me a little smile. I can tell he understands what I’m trying to say. Then his smile spreads into a grin. “You don’t want to pop down and visit your grandmother?”

            “I’d rather eat my own face,” I say bluntly, and he snorts. “I’m sure she’s cursing my name and striking me from the will. Truly, the greatest gift of all.” I bite into the almond, thinking about things. It’s getting dark, and this is our Christmas dinner. Whatever Baltasar could shove in his rucksack before disappearing forever. Trying to sound casual, I mention, “So…say I were to run off with you.”

            “That’s a fantasy,” Baltasar says.

            “You’re about to run off, though. You’re not staying here.”

            “I’m not, no.”

            “So if I wanted to be with you, I would have to run away as well.”

            Baltasar looks at me and says, “Neville. We can go to London _right now_.”

            I think about it, then I laugh. “I’ve seen London.”

            “There’s a whole world out there.”

            “I want to go to Canada.”

            Baltasar pauses. “Sorry?”

            “I want to go to Canada with you. I’m not saying we need to visit the old family homestead or anything, but…I’d like to see where you came from. I want to see the places that made you.”

            He gazes into my eyes. I look back, smiling. Baltasar inhales, then tells me, “I would love—nothing more in the world, than to take you to Canada with me.”

            I nod, pleased, and say, “We can talk about the particulars tomorrow?”

            “Yeah.”

            I hold up the bag of almonds. “Would you care for any more of our Christmas feast?”

            “Mm.” Baltasar sets the chocolates aside and scoots over to me. Pushing my arm out of the way, he climbs onto my lap. He wraps my arm around him again, bumping his head under my chin. I put an almond up to his mouth, and he takes it from my fingers.

            I give his hair a kiss. There’s a whole world out there.

 

“I’ll take you to Cape Breton first,” Baltasar murmurs. “It won’t be as much of a culture shock. A lot of the island is descended from Britons. I know a place on the Cabot Trail where it’s the actual most beautiful place on earth. I’ve been all around the world, but there’s nothing like this one spot, looking down from the hills, out to the ocean.”

            I’m falling asleep. I can barely keep my eyes open. I’ll drift off listening to him talk. I quite like the idea of that. “Okay.”

            “We’ll have to go to Vancouver. Maybe after Cape Breton. I’ll just take you all the way to the other side of the continent. You’ve never seen a city like Vancouver. It’ll be best if we come in on a day when it’s foggy, so you’ll have no idea. You won’t even know what you’re about to see, and then you’ll wake up and you’ll just be surrounded by the mountains and water. I’ll take you to thrift shops that cost way too much money and we’ll get food in Chinatown and we’ll go get lost in Stanley Park with the homeless.”

            “Sounds good.”

            “Then I’ll take you back across the country, province by province. I’ll take you to Alberta and I’ll give you handfuls of wildrose.”

            “Mm.”

            “I’ll take you through the prairies. You’ll be sick of fields by the time we’re done. Maybe then I’ll take you up north. Just to give you another shock. I’ll take you all the way up to Baffin Island. I’ll take you to where the people have been forgotten. And then I’ll take you Ontario. Ontario last. We’re not going to Quebec, because fuck Quebec. Huh. That might be the most Canadian thing I’ve ever said. But I’ll take you to Ottawa. And then I’ll tell you all my stories. I’ll tell you every single thing.”

            I can see birds behind my eyes. I can barely hear his voice.

            “Neville?”

            My eyes flutter open. “Yeah?”

            Baltasar is facing me, his hands under his head. “This was the best Christmas I’ve ever had.”

            I smile, and put a hand to his cheek. I give him a soft kiss on the lips, and say, “I’m glad, love.” I pet his cheek a few times, then draw up into myself. I’m warm and happy and this might be the best Christmas of my life as well.

            I close my eyes, and I fall asleep.

 

I’m in the Janus Thickey Ward.

            I’d know it like the back of my hand. There are differences, though. All the furniture is gone, and the lights are low, save for a few at the back. It feels like it’s been shut down. Cleared out. A time when there is no need for this place.

            A woman stands at the end of the room, her back to me. I take a few steps forward, hearing them echo. I wait, then say, “Mum?”

            She turns. She doesn’t look like the woman I know. Her face is healthy, full. She’s wearing earrings, which Mum’s not allowed to do. She would hurt herself. This woman is my mother, but not my mother.

            She holds a hand out to me. I hesitate, but I cross the room to her.

            This is my mother. Not the mother I’ve known, but the woman she was, or was meant to be. Sometimes I dream about my mother like this. Am I dreaming now?

            I take her hands. Mum squeezes them, then pulls them close to her. She looks up at me, eyes searching my face. What is she looking for? Have I hidden something? But she looks pleased with me. She looks happy just to see me.

            “Is everything okay?” I ask.

            She lets go of my hand, and reaches up to touch my face. I look like my mum. People have told me that. She lifts the hair from my forehead, pushing it aside. The way Molly will sometimes.

            “Mum, are you okay?”

            She nods. She says, “You will forgive the unforgivable.”

            I frown, trying to figure out what she’s telling me.

            Mum falters. She pats my chest, unable to meet my eyes. “What is it?” I ask, worried. “What’s wrong?”

            There’s the sound of a switch, and the room fills with light.

 

The light wakes me. I squint, hunching in on myself against it. Baltasar has turned on the lights or something. That doesn’t make any sense. There are no lights in the cottage.

            I open my eyes.

            My own face looks back at me.

            My face, my eyes, my hair—my clothes—all of me is just crouched beside the bed, studying me with detached amusement. This is not the cottage. This is a white room, and I am lying on a bed that I did not fall asleep in, and my doppelganger is watching me.

            Then I see behind him. There are others. Including Wulfric Brult.

            Before I can even move, the other Neville Longbottom points a wand at me and say, “ _Imperio_.”


	29. Chapter 29

There is a voice at the back of my mind. It insists that I stay still. So I do. The me who is not me smiles at that and lowers his wand.

            My heart pounds. I am surrounded. I can see four people in front of me, this imposter and Wulfric and—Dynes, fucking hell. I don’t know the woman. They all have wands in hand, not a one of them the same expression on their face. The woman looks disinterested. Dynes looks far too pleased with himself. Wulfric is taut and eager, eyes gleaming. The me who’s not is calm, as though everything is going precisely as planned.

            Someone behind me says, “Are we good?”

            Another man. That makes five, unless there are others I can’t see. I can’t move.

            “Oh yes,” Not Me says. “We’re quite well indeed. Are we not, Neville.”

            He reaches out, and lays a hand that’s mine and not on my face. I want to flinch, but I only stare at him. His smile spreads a hair more, and he strokes an affectionate thumb over my cheek.

            “I’ve waited a very long time for this, Neville. Your cooperation has been…most kind.”

            Where is Baltasar? My pulse flares. I can’t see him. These people have taken me somewhere. What have they done to him? What have they _done_ to him?

            “Can we kill him now?” Wulfric asks breathlessly.

            Not Me continues to caress my face, watching me. “He’s quite keen, isn’t he. He’s been obsessing for weeks. No matter how many times I tell him what the plan is, he seems to forget each time.” His voice—my voice—turns colder near the end. Wulfric shrinks back a step. Not Me lets the light come back to his eyes, and I feel chills. He pulls his hand away from my face, and threads his fingers together, staying crouched beside the bed. “I should be going. A man with more—restraint, perhaps, would simply leave you here without another word said. He would proceed, and leave you entirely in the dark, alone to your fate with no answers. But I have watched you for quite some time, Neville Longbottom—and I cannot leave here without you knowing how utterly you’ve been defeated.”

            Dynes smirks. The walls behind him are white. Everything in this room is white. There is a window behind him, and it’s above my head, but I see nothing beyond it. I can hear nothing beyond it. We’re not in a city or town.

            Wherever Baltasar is, I’ll find him. I will find him, and I will get him out of this. I’ve gotten us into this. I’m the one who antagonized the MA, not him, if they do anything to him—

            “Where’s Byquist?” Not Me says.

            “Outside,” Dynes says. “What do you want to do with him?”

            Don’t hurt him. Please, don’t hurt him. I’ll give anything—say anything—

            Not Me gazes into my eyes. There is nothing in those eyes. It is not my face, because there’s nothing in this man’s eyes, nothing in his soul—

            Not Me looks back at Dynes. “Call the Canadians. Tell them to go ahead. I am a man of my word, after all.” Dynes nods, and walks out of the room. Not Me turns back. He smooths a hand over the bed in front of me. “And he did all that he said he could. That and more.”

            I don’t…

            No.

            Not Me tilts his head and tuts. “You were quite hysterical, weren’t you. You’ve been falling apart publicly for months now. Throwing poor Wulfric out of school. Practically walking a child to the isle of Azkaban yourself. Advocating against a measure that the majority wants enacted. Even if they might not know it yet. But what everyone is going to remember, Neville Longbottom, is how you fell apart over a man. Some nothing man from nowhere. You grew quite fixated with him, didn’t you. Some would say dangerously fixated. In fact, they’ll all say that, after you kill McGonagall.”

            I stare at him.

            “Yes,” Not Me purrs. “Yes, you made quite a mess of yourself. Premeditated, they’ll say. You screamed at her in front of all the Headmasters’ portraits, and they’ve spread the word across Britain. And Christmas Eve—why, you made it quite public that she was putting you in an untenable position. The man you love, or a job that some would kill for. Have killed for. You seemed rather desperate, begging Byquist to stay, out in the streets of Hogsmeade. He sold all that very well, didn’t he.”

            No.

            Please. No.

            “No one will ever forget how Neville Longbottom returned to Hogwarts, after the man he loved rejected him, and murdered the legendary Minerva McGonagall in the Headmaster’s office. After all, there will be so many witnesses. All the former heads of Hogwarts. They’ll tell the world. And what an embarrassment. Two of the most famous members of the Order of the Phoenix. In some tawdry sex scandal that ended in murder. The Wizengamot will have quite the problem making this go away, won’t they. They couldn’t possibly hire a Headmaster connected with either of you. They’ll pick a neutral party. But it will be one of our choosing. And from there we will rule, Neville. We will rule.

            “As goes Hogwarts, so goes the world. It would only be natural to immediately adopt a measure you were so staunchly against. Not only is it good politics, but it will come as a relief to so many people, to reject all that you stood for. That’s how it starts. One small thing. One small thing that opens the door for other policies. It will take years. We’ve no need to rush. We’ve already won.”

            Not Me leans forward, lowering his voice confidentially. “Do you know, the Magical Alliance doesn’t actually care about sorting. It’s nothing. All this fuss about Slytherin. I wasn’t in Slytherin. I was in Ravenclaw. That’s how I knew we would lose last time. A movement united under a single charismatic leader. He emboldened them, but without him, they fell to pieces. They floundered. So I kept my distance, and allowed the fools who wanted to run about with snakes and skulls tattooed on their bodies to tell the world how they meant to murder Muggles and half breeds and Muggle borns. They did themselves in, and those of us who weren’t idiots simply waited. Because things always swing back. People think they want a democracy. They don’t. They like the idea of it. But it goes against their nature. There are the extremists—like you, Longbottom—but the majority of people are so scared of the world that they simply want someone to tell them it will be all right. They’ll be safe and warm if they just go back to the old ways. You say ‘family values’ and ‘tradition’ and people will fall in line so quickly. So sorting? We could care less about sorting. It’s simply a way to get the masses comfortable with the changes we will be making.”

            “You need to go,” the woman says.

            “I need to leave here at precisely 9:50,” Not Me replies. “That’s when she’ll be in the office for a half hour for tea. She hasn’t missed tea at 10:00 in seven years when she’s at the castle. It is 9:47, so I will leave when it means I won’t have to linger on the grounds. I can walk straight to the school, into the office, and kill her. Or do you want me to alter my plans?”

            “There’s no need to tell him everything.”

            “I know. I just like the idea of him dying, knowing what we’ve done.” Not Me bounces on his haunches, smiling at me. “I’ve planned this a long time. _We_ have planned this a long time. It seems only fitting that one of the men who helped defeat Voldemort will help usher in a new age. I know you consider the Alliance as nothing more than an extension of the Death Eaters. To be honest, it’s insulting. They were obvious, and reckless, and deserved all that they wrought. They did what they did because they thought Voldemort would protect them. But he was as big a fool as they were. He had no interest in the movement. He only wanted to prove himself a god. We’ve no need for gods. We need the world to recognize the natural order of things. They have fooled themselves for far too long. And it’s not a matter of good, or evil. It’s something far more important than that. It’s about what’s right.” Not Me leans forward and says, “We’ve grovelled before Muggles long enough, Neville. It’s time to take our true place, once and for all. It’s time to restore the natural order.”

            Not Me gets to his feet. He looks down at me, and sighs, content. “Time to stop gloating. I need to make sure that you kill McGonagall on time. What a relief it will be to have that woman out of the way. She nearly destroyed all of our hard work, getting the Aurors involved. I knew it was a risk, but—your man was worth every penny.” Not Me holds up my wand. “I’ll have this back to you soon enough. After all, Byquist needs to kill you with your own wand, once he finds out what you’ve done.”

            He starts to turn, then reconsiders. With a twitch of the lips, Not Me spits down on my face. His saliva sits on my cheek, warm. Then it starts to drag down my skin.

            Not Me goes to the door, but Wulfric says, “Can I _Crucio_ him?”

            Not Me stops. After a moment’s consideration, he says, “Leave no permanent marks. We have plans for what his corpse has to look like.” Wulfric steps towards me, greedy. The man behind me walks around the bed—Leroq. Alastair Leroq. He walks towards the door, and Not Me says, “You’re not staying?”

            “I’ll be in the other room,” Leroq mutters. “I have no desire to see that boy play with his food.”

            Not Me smiles at that, and tells the dark haired woman, “Keep an eye on him.” She nods, staring at me. Not Me looks at me one more time, almost wistful. “Goodbye for now, Neville. I’ll be sure to tell you all the gritty details before I kill you.”

            He closes the door behind himself.

           

Baltasar.

            This whole time…

            Everything. _Everything_.

            No. It can’t be true. It’s another trick.

            It has to be.

            I can’t dwell on that now. McGonagall is in trouble. Not just trouble; they are going to kill her. A man wearing my face is going to walk into her office, and the last thing she sees will be Neville Longbottom raising his wand to end her life. I will never, ever, ever allow that to happen.

            Heaven help me, I will kill anyone who stands in my way.

            I have no wand. I am outnumbered at least five to one.

            And Wulfric Brult is about to point his wand at my face and say the word.

            “Thought you were clever, didn’t you?” Wulfric says, eyes crazed. “You thought you could just be rid of me. I bet you feel stupid now, don’t you.”

            The woman rolls her eyes. She tucks her wand inside her robes and goes to lean against the wall.

            I can hear the others speaking in the other room. I cannot hear Baltasar’s voice. But I can hear my own, and it makes me sick.

            “You thought I was some no one. Some joke to laugh at with all the other idiots. But look at you! I’m going to do it, you know. I’m going to hurt you. I’m going to hurt you quite badly. Maybe so badly that you die.”

            “You’ll do no such thing,” the woman says boredly.

            “Shut it, Josephine!”

            She sets her gaze on him and says, “I beg your pardon?”

            Wulfric looks mad. His cheeks are red and he can’t stay still. “I’m part of his plan. You can’t get rid of me. I’ll be let back into Hogwarts. I can do whatever I want. I won’t have to be some potion maker. I’m part of the plan.”

            “You won’t be part of the plan if you do anything to _that_ one that he doesn’t like.”

            “It won’t matter,” Wulfric says. “He’s going to die.” Wulfric darts forward. He pokes my cheek with his wand. I blink, but do nothing else. Wulfric lets out a giggle at that. “Look at him! He can’t even move! He can’t do a thing.”

            “Yes, Wulfric, that’s how _Imperio_ works.”

            Wulfric looms over me, gleeful with triumph. “Do you know, I’ve known all this time what would happen to you. After you threw me out, they found me. They told me what they were going to do to you. Serves you right, you dirty old queer. You had your hands all over that foreigner, and you didn’t even know that this whole time he was telling us everything. Not so clever now!”

            Josephine holds up a hand, studying her nails. She yawns, then starts to dig at some dirt beneath them.

            “You’re going to die,” Wulfric whispers, leaning closer and closer to me. “I’m going to watch. If I have anything to do with it, I’ll be the one with my hand on your wand when it happens. You’re going to squirm, and it’s going to be me doing it to you. You’re going to die, and then I’ll go back to Hogwarts, and I’ll be the first of his soldiers.” He pauses, as if some grand idea just popped into his mind. Dazed, Wulfric says, “I think I’ll be Head Boy next year.”

            He stands up, and aims his wand at me with a flourish. I hear my voice telling the others farewell.

            “ _Crucio_ ,” Wulfric growls, and there’s the sound of disapparating.

            A second passes, and nothing happens.

            Wulfric stares at me, then steps forward, shoving his wand into my face. “ _Cru_ —”

            I grab his wand, yanking him down, and punch him in the throat with my other hand. Wulfric gags, dropping to the bed. I roll over him, pointing at the door, and hiss, “ _Muffliato_.”

            Josephine is fumbling her wand, struggling to get it out of her jacket as she leaps forward. Only I get there first. Wulfric’s wand against her chest, looking down into her eyes. She stares up at me with wide eyes, not understanding how this has happened.

            I say, “ _Avada Kedavra._ ”

            There’s a flash of green, and she goes limp.

            I catch her with my free hand. I don’t want her body making too much noise as it falls. Wulfric’s wand feels strange in my hand. Greasy. But it’s responding to me because I’ve disarmed him, and I can use it to cut a swath between myself and McGonagall. I take Josephine’s wand as well, letting her down carefully.

            Wulfric is laying half on the bed, holding his throat. He’s staring at Josephine’s body with terrified eyes. They flick upwards to me, and he starts to shake.

            Pointing his own wand at him, I shake my head. “You stupid child. Do you want to know what an Unforgivable Curse feels like?” He makes a low, whining noise, unable to speak, and I’d piss on him if I could. “ _Imperio_.”

            He lifts to his feet because I want him to. Wulfric stands in front of me, vibrating with fear.

            I need to move. Only I can’t help myself.

            “Were you really so blind?” I ask. “You were given every opportunity, and you squandered them. I gave you every chance, and you threw them all away. You’d rather end up dead or like your parents. Because there was never any option besides that if you chose the wrong side. And you chose the wrong side. You would have endangered every child in that school, let professors be murdered, all because you wanted this sickness. There was never any saving you, because you don’t understand why we won. It’s not because we were kind. It’s because we were _better_ than you.”

            I twist the wand, and he lurches forward a step. His eyes roll with terror.

            “I could kill you now. I _should_. But I’d rather you see this, so that you never doubt again why my side will always win the war.”

            He walks past me. He goes to the door, reaching for the knob. I see a tremor in his hand, but he opens the door, and steps through.

            I hear Dynes ask, “Had your fun?”

            I walk through the door, wand raised. Leroq is closest to me, so I point at him first. “ _Vitisium_!”

            Leroq chokes. He grasps at his throat as I turn on Dynes. Dynes reaches for his wand as vines explode from Leroq’s mouth. They come and come and come, spewing out, growing, spreading out across the floor as he collapses, writhing.

            “ _Crucio_!” Dynes screams. I stride across the room to him, teeth gritted. His eyes bulge, and he screams again, “ _Crucio_!”

            “ _Expelliarmus_ ,” I snap, and the wand tears from his hand. Dynes tries to dodge, but I put on speed, and run right at him. He is weak and I am not, and I run him right into the wall with all my body.

            He cracks his head against the white wall, yelling. Grabbing him by the throat, I squeeze. I shove Wulfric’s wand right into Dynes’ ear, and I lift him off the ground with one hand.

            It takes all my effort not to put my wand through his brain. “Did you honestly think it would be that simple? Lumbering, backwards Longbottom, meek herbologist—is that what you really thought? I have seen worse than the likes of you, and heaven help me, I will again. Who else is with him? Who else is going to the castle?”

            “I’ll never—”

            “ _Crucio_ ,” I whisper.

            The scream he lets out could strip his windpipe. He kicks at me, not because he’s fighting, but because he thinks he’s dying. I keep him off the floor, watching his rat face go red with exertion and fear.

            I lift the wand, and Dynes wails. Tears well up in his eyes, and he beats weakly at my hand.

            “Now—I can’t be _Crucio_ ’d, but I can certainly dole it out. Tell me this second if he’s alone, or I swear, I’ll leave you in a nightmare you cannot imagine.”

            “Alone,” Dynes wheezes.

            “Are you certain?”

            “Has to—be alone—or they’ll…suspect.”

            I study him. He’s telling the truth. I don’t have the time for any other questions. Leroq flops on the floor behind me as vines spread beneath our feet. Whether he’s dead or not, I really don’t care. But I have to leave at least one of them alive.

            “You or the boy,” I say.

            “What?”

            “Do I leave you or Wulfric alive to confess to the Aurors?” Wulfric moans, and I say, “You have three seconds to decide. Three—two—”

            “Kill the boy!” Dynes chokes. “Let me live, just—”

            I loosen my hold, and Dynes gasps, grabbing at his throat. I lift the wand and say, “ _Inplicare_.”

            The wall reaches out and grabs Dynes.

            He screams, reaching for me. I step out of his grasp, going to find his wand. The wall wraps around his legs, his arms. His wand is hazel. It’s of no use to me. Too unpredictable. I break it over my thigh, just to be on the safe side, then go to Leroq to search for his.

            Fir. Like McGonagall’s. I pocket the wand, then stand back up as Dynes’ screams abruptly cease.

            Wulfric is frozen in the middle of the room. He’s gaping at the wall. All that remains of Dynes is a hand. It looks like it’s been mounted on the wall, like an animal’s head. Only it’s opening and closing, struggling to reach someone or something.

            I go to stand in front of Wulfric. The boy stares up at me, hyperventilating, still unable to speak.

            “Don’t worry,” I say. “He’s alive. Maybe he’ll even stay alive until the Aurors get here. But if he had his way, you would be dead now. I’m leaving you alive. It’s not from the goodness of my heart. You will tell the Aurors everything they want to know when they get here, and maybe one day you’ll see the outside of Azkaban. If you don’t, you can join your parents there until you die. Now _sit_.”

            He does, abruptly. With a flick of my wand, the vines begin wrapping around him. Wulfric lets out a screeching noise without even opening his mouth. The vines pull him towards Leroq, covering his every inch.

            I leave him there. I’ve wasted enough time.

            I shove open the door, jogging outside.

            I know this place. We’re in the mountains, not too far from Hogwarts. They couldn’t hold me much further than this. They would need my body nearby. I can get closer, though. I can get as close as possible before reaching the wards.

            I can make it. I know I can.

            I apparate.

 

I run through the forest, wand wrapped in my fist, begging whatever powers that be to keep my clumsy, slow body upright. I have to count on the fact that Not Me wouldn’t be running. If he was running, it would look suspicious. He would walk into the castle.

            I have to believe that.

            It worked. After all that time—all the experiments, the trial and error, the heartbreaks—I finally know that I succeeded. I tried for so many years to bring my parents back from what was done to them. So many sleepless nights that Ginny threatened to leave me if I couldn’t let it go. It took a long time to accept that I could never fix what was done to them.

            But I could stop it from ever happening again.

            Every night for three years, I’ve taken my potions before bed. I keep extra in my robes, in my bag, in my arboretum, because I couldn’t stand the thought of missing a dose. I had to be sure, even though I knew that the cummulative effect would innoculate me. I was preparing to go to phase three—active testing. I was going to ask Aida if she would help me with live testing, but the MA beat her to it.

            I don’t know how to solve _Avada Kedavra_ yet. But _Imperio_? _Crucio_? I’ve defeated them. All it took was years of study, experimenting on myself, and enough alicitheum to warrant questioning by the Aurors. And I’ve done it.

            They can never use what killed my parents against me again.

            Herbology. Never the credit it deserves.

            I’m west of Hogwarts. I thought about coming through Hogsmeade, but if I had to stop, that would have lost me too much time. I throw up a _Tempus_ as I run. I only glimpse it for a second. 10:04. McGonagall will be in the office. If Not Me apparated to the edge of the wards, he would still need twenty minutes to reach the office. So that she’s settled, so that it’s not suspicious for him to be waiting at the door.

            She’s Minerva McGonagall. She can handle herself.

            But if he comes in there with apologies—if he comes in there telling her he was wrong. McGonagall would never assume that I’d come in there to hurt her. She’ll be off her guard. I have to believe that she’ll know something isn’t right. If her reaction is off by a second, though—she’s 76 years old. She might be the greatest witch in the world, but there’s no way of knowing.

            I run through the scraggly trees, around boulders. I run through the snow. I can’t see the castle yet, but I’m five minutes from reaching the grounds, if my lungs don’t give out.

            I cannot let her die. She was right—she was right about everything, and if she dies, it’s my fault.

            It can’t be true. It can’t. It _can’t_.

            I finally reach a path that leads into a clearing. I’ve nearly reached the end of the forest. If I just make it a little further—maybe someone will be outside, maybe they’ll see me. I can get help. Don’t let me be too late. Let me save her. Let me stop this.

            Only Baltasar walks out from a boulder on the other side of the clearing, and my world stops.

            He blocks the path between Hogwarts and I. He wears the black robes I gave him, collar high, hair pulled back loosely, looking every inch the dark wizard. His wand is held in his hand, down at his side. Baltasar gazes at me, and I know. I know that it’s all true.

            I stare at him, my shoulders heaving, my lungs raw.

            “I told him not to leave you alone,” Baltasar says quietly. “I said to him, if you’re going to kill him, better to do it quickly. Because if you don’t… But he underestimated you. Everyone always underestimates you, don’t they, Neville.”

            My whole body shakes. A rage I cannot name is overtaking me. “How could you?” I rasp. I could snap this wand in half with how tightly I’m holding it. “You _lied_.”

            “I did.”

            “Why?”

            “It doesn’t matter.”

            “It doesn’t matter?!” I scream, and Baltasar flinches. “All these months—everything I told you, everything we did—I came to you when my father died!”

            “I know.”

            “When did it start?” I’m near hysterical with my need to know. “When you came to the castle? It made no sense—was that it? You had an in, so you told the MA and threw your lot in? When did it start? Tell me!”

            Baltasar gazes at me. Then he says, “Wormwood.”

            I cannot breathe.

            “Everything?” I whisper. “All of it.”

            “All of it.”

            I can’t get enough air. There is nothing else but what is in front of me. “This whole time—you’ve been MA from the start?”

            Baltasar lets out a short, sick laugh that’s unfamiliar to me. “The MA—I could give a shit about the MA. The MA, or your side, or your pointless ideologies. It’s all nothing.”

            “Then _why_?”

            “It doesn’t matter—”

            “It _matters_!”

            He shakes his head, and asks, “Does it?”

            And I realize that it doesn’t. MA, Death Eater, something else entirely, nothing at all. It doesn’t matter in the least. What matters is that everything that ever happened between us was a lie. It was a lie, and he meant to kill me from the start.

            Baltasar sees that I understand, and says, “If I thought you would listen, I would tell you to put down your wand. I would tell you I’d make it painless. But I know you—”

            “You don’t know me!”

            “I do. You don’t know me.”

            “I loved you,” I say.

            Hesitating, Baltasar nods. “I know,” he says softly. He takes a breath, eyes never leaving my face. For a moment, I see regret. It is swiftly replaced by something harder. “Why did you have to be perfect?”

            He swings his wand towards me, and the earth explodes.

            I throw my arms over my head as I’m thrown through the air. I go high, surrounded by dirt and snow, nearly losing grip on the wand. I’m thrown so fast and hard that I can’t react beyond trying to protect myself, but I can see that half the clearing has gone up with me.

            Before I can even fall, Baltasar spins, raking his wand through the air. The next thing I see is trees—a wall of trees torn from the ground, flying at me.

            Gasping, I throw up a shield charm. The trees slam into me with the force of a train, as the earth surges upwards again like a wave. For a split second, I’m lost.

            Then I jerk the wand forward and scream a spell, lost under the roar of the grinding earth. The trees explode away from me with the force of my rage. The ground abruptly drops, and I land on my feet. I use all my will, and throw each splintered limb at Baltasar.

He counters with a spell that sends them all hurtling back at me. I jam my wand into the air, and use every lesson McGonagall ever tried to teach me, and turn the destroyed trees into wooden birds. They swoop up through the air, then careen back to Baltasar.

            Flinging his arms wide, a wave of heat rolls off him so strong that I feel it even as the first birds are set on fire. A wave of flame moves through the air like a bomb, destroying the birds. All that remains are ashes, falling over the clearing.

            For a moment, neither of us does anything. We just look at one another. This man—I have loved this man.

            Then Baltasar’s eyes go cold. I see him brace himself, and I tighten my grip on the wand.

            Here it comes. We unleash on one another at the same moment.

            We hurl spell after spell at one another. The clearing explodes again and again in dirt and snow. Rocks fly through the air. The air is lit with electricity and fire.

            And I become almost immediately aware that I will lose.

            He never let me see him use his wand, and now I know why. I’m not going to lose because I’m using someone else’s wand. I’m going to lose because his power is terrifying. For every divot I take from the ground, Baltasar takes a crater. With a snap of the wrist, he calls down a strike of lightning that I barely avoid, ozone lingering in my nose, hair lifting with static. He doesn’t say a word, he just hurls spell after spell at me with a focus I cannot meet.

            But I will not yield.

            I can’t let him win.

            I point to the trees still rooted to the earth. “ _ANIMUS_!”

            The trees begin to transform. They grow arms and legs, pulling themselves up and onto their feet. Stretching their mouths wide, they charge the clearing, charging Baltasar.

            He jumps up, and rises above them into the air. I point my wand at him, roaring, “ _Bombarda Maxima_!”

            Baltasar jerks to the side, narrowly missing the explosion. Twisting in the air, he shoots purple strikes of electricity at the boulders closest to me.

            One swings an arm at me, clipping me across the side.

            I go flying, rolling across the ground. I look up at see the boulders rapidly turning into figures. Three of them, two meters tall, made of sharp points and aiming themselves directly at me.        

            There’s another tidal wave of fire as Baltasar destroys the trees with a single twist of his wand. Instead of protecting myself from the rocks running for me, I point at him and conjure arrows. They hurtle towards him, but I don’t stop to see if they find their mark.

            I shove my wand towards the nearest rock. “ _Evanesco_!” It takes one more step, then disappears. Another one takes its place. “ _Evanesco_!”

            The Vanishing spell is only partly successful. It loses one side of its body, dropping to the ground.

            Here comes the third. To hell with it.

            “ _Accio_ rock!” I yelp.

            The thing comes soaring towards me. I use the wand to swing it across the clearing. It sails through the air, limbs outstretched.

            Before it can reach Baltasar, it explodes into a thousand pieces. Baltasar strides across the clearing, through fire and smoke, wand outstretched.

            “ _Protego_ _Maxima_!”

            A shield bursts upwards around me. Barely slowing his step, Baltasar winds back, then hits me with a wave of power that nearly knocks me off my feet. He doesn’t skip a beat, just hits the shield again.

            And again. And again.

            I’m shoved back every time. I have my wand up, my other hand against the shield, trying to reinforce it—nothing should get through this charm. Nothing should, but I can feel it strain. It’s my strength against his, and Baltasar is stronger than me. He’s going to cut through this shield like paper, and I am going to die.

            I can’t die here. Hogwarts needs me.

            He pulls his arm back, and I drop the charm. “ _Everte Statum_!” Baltasar is thrown backwards. Before he can stop himself, I shout, “ _Lacero_!”

            Baltasar’s head snaps back, and I see beads of blood spill into the air.

            But then he turns around, and my wand suddenly tears from my hand.

            He swings his arm across his body, and—

            And I am torn from shoulder to hip.

            Another blast sends me backwards, and I stumble, and I fall onto my back.

            No.

            I’m suddenly quite warm. And wet. I have this tingling sensation going diagonally across my torso. I don’t know if my innards are out or not, but…I’m quite hurt. Yes. I am very hurt.

            I’ve lost. I wasn’t good enough. I was supposed to save everyone.

            I lay on my back, staring up at the grey sky. This will be the last thing I see. I’m going to die here.

            Baltasar limps into my field of vision. There’s a nasty cut across his cheek, and he’s breathing heavily, but beyond that he is in one piece. He stands over me, wand pointed down at my chest.

            If this is how I die, at least I didn’t die a coward. “You had better kill me,” I growl. It hurts to breathe, and that wetness is coursing down my sides. “Because as long as I’m alive, that building will never fall.”

            Nodding, Baltasar murmurs, “I know.”

            I watch his small hand tighten on the wand, and the resolve taking over his face. I take the last breath of my life. I see all the people I’ve ever loved. They flash before me. My friends. My parents. Gran. All my many Weasleys. Arthur. Molly. Ginny.

            Baltasar exhales. Those blue eyes are the last sight I’ll ever see.

            He says, “ _Avada K_ —”

            There’s a loud bang that echoes through the clearing. One second, I’m about to die. The next, Baltasar has disappeared.

            I struggle up onto my elbows. Baltasar hasn’t vanished. But he has been thrown to the opposite side of the clearing, lying on his stomach. He pushes himself up a little, and we both look to his wand.

            It lies between the two of us. It’s rattling about, like there’s something inside. Then the end cracks. It cracks, and a long white hand snakes out.

            The wand splits down the middle, and a pale figure drags itself forward. It plants its claws into the ground, lifting its bald head. It has no eyes, only dark caverns where they ought to be. The creature drops its jaw open, revealing nothing but a black abyss. It makes no noise, which is somehow more frightening. Straining as the wand expels it, the monster tilts its face towards to the sky.

            Then it snaps its head around, and looks directly at Baltasar.

            He stares at it, frozen. “No.”

            The creature slithers forward abruptly, leaving the wand a destroyed husk. It opens its maw even further as it crawls towards Baltasar, and the day is filled with a sound I can’t hear but can feel. I gasp, and blood abruptly bursts from my nose.

            “No,” Baltasar says, scrambling to his feet. “You’re a _myth_! You’re not real!”

            The monster lurches to its feet. It’s nothing but skin and bone and claws. There is something wrong with its body. Its bones stick out at angles that hurt the eye to look at. It somehow manages to step closer to Baltasar.

            He’s shaking his head at it, panic taking over. “No! Don’t you understand? It’s him or her! It doesn’t matter how I feel, it’s between him and her, so what’s the _fucking point_ of you if you choose him?!” Baltasar takes a step back as the creature swings itself forward. The creature doesn’t seem to hear. It doesn’t even have any ears. Baltasar takes deep heaving breaths, then suddenly scowls. “Fuck this.”

            He reaches into the pocket of his robes, and then pulls out a long Muggle weapon. He puts it to his shoulder, aiming the end at the creature, and then a sound like a cannonball fills the clearing.

            I see the creature jerk, and a hole appear in its shoulder, but it continues its march towards Baltasar.

            What am I doing? He’s distracted!

            I look frantically from side to side, and find Wulfric’s wand. There’s another tremendous cracking sound, but I don’t bother looking. My insides aren’t falling out, thank Merlin. It’s just a cut—a very, very deep cut. Putting my hand to the ground, I scramble my feet and try to lurch towards the wand.

            I fall on my face. I’m dizzy. Too bad. I’ve wasted too much time.

            I glance across the clearing. Baltasar has opened the long gun, shoving some cartridges inside. The creature has two very large holes in it, but it still lurches towards him. Baltasar locks eyes with me, seeing me reaching for the wand, and snaps the weapon quickly closed.

            I barely have the time to yank my hand out of the way. Where my hand was, there’s suddenly an explosion of dirt and stone that scrapes across my face. I take a mouthful of earth and snow, tasting blood.

            But then Baltasar screams.

            I scramble to the wand, grabbing it and shoving myself to my feet. I’m wobbling, but I can make it. From my peripheral vision, I see Baltasar falling backwards, the creature lunging at him with a swiftness it hadn’t shown before. He kicks at its face, but the gun goes sailing from his hand.

            Not my problem. One hand to my wound, I limp briskly across the clearing, around where they’re struggling in the snow. Baltasar lets out a wail of fury, but I don’t slow. I have to get to the castle. Whatever happens to him, he has it coming.

            Get to the castle. Save McGonagall. Stop this madness.

            I get to the edge of the clearing, and a scream of pain curdles my blood.

            I look back.

            The creature is dragging its claws through Baltasar’s leg. Blood sprays upwards, and Baltasar’s head arcs back as he screams. The creature is working its way up his body. It will kill him.

            I don’t have the time for this.

            And I don’t know why I do it. But I let out a whistle that echoes through the clearing. The monster lifts its head, and my wand is already pointed.

            I kill it with two words. A flash of green light, and it freezes. Then it falls atop Baltasar. I wasn’t sure if it could be killed. But I’ve done it.

            Baltasars lays there beneath it, breathing heavily. He shoves it aside, and the creature immediately starts to disintegrate. Baltasar stares at it, then looks back at me in disbelief.

            Then he turns, flinging himself towards the gun.

            I knock him out with one hard hit. He falls back on the snow, arms outspread. I wait a second to make sure he’s really unconscious.

            He is. Tiredly, I flick my wand. Tree roots slip up to the surface, and begin covering him. They wrap around his wrists and ankles, then the rest of him. They pull him tightly against the ground, keeping him secure.

            I turn my back on Baltasar Byquist, and I run to the castle.

 

I’m more hurt than I’d like to admit, but I half limp, half run onto school grounds. I’m bleeding continuously, but not heavily. I can make it. I can make it.

            Get McGonagall. Get help. Stop this. Stop all of this. It’s my fault. I have to stop it.

            I jog along the shore of the Black Lake, searching the castle for any sign of something amiss. Nothing seems out of the ordinary.

            She could already be dead.

            The thought makes me move faster. The greatest witch of her age will not die because I’m weak.

            I finally reach the lawns outside the school, forcing myself forward, and I hear—oh thank the stars—I hear a voice yell, “Professor?”

            Teddy Lupin is running to me from one of the doorways. I take a deep breath, more grateful for the sight of him than anything else in my life. I try to breathe, but all I can do is wheeze.

            He comes to a stop in front of me, staring. “I knew something was wrong!” Teddy yelps. “I thought something was wrong with you—you were being so nice to me, and I knew something wasn’t right, so I followed you to the Headmistress’ office—but you broke the door behind you so I couldn’t follow—I was trying to find help—”

            “It wasn’t me—”

            “Obviously!”

            “Teddy, tell me how to get into the office another way. There has to be another way.”

            Teddy falters. “Sir—”

            “Teddy!” I bark. “He’s here to kill McGonagall and say it was me! Now is not the time to fuck around!”

            He nods, already walking backwards. “You go in through the portrait of the monkey, the one with the fez—it swings open and you climb the stairs and it comes out behind the bookcase—”

            “Good lad,” I say, hurrying forward, hitch in my step. “Now find Hagrid! Tell him there’s an imposter in the castle, that he’s here to kill the Headmistress—and Teddy! Don’t you dare come back into the castle unless I tell you to—”

            “What about the other students?”

            “Get Hagrid!” I yell, jogging inside. “Listen to what he tells you!”

            I move inside the castle as fast as I can. It’s not much, but I force myself to run. I race through the halls, bleeding as I go. I’m a wreck, but I’m here. I’ve put them all down, save one.

            If I don’t save McGonagall though, it will all have been for nothing.

            “Professor!”    

            “Nick!” I gasp, lurching along. “Find Flitwick! There’s an intruder in the castle disguised as me—here to kill—McGonagall—go!”

            Nick flies through a wall, and I turn the corner that will lead me to the monkey’s portrait.

            Save McGonagall. I have to save McGonagall.

            The portrait is as tall as I am. The children are terrified of the monkey. It’s poorly painted but still gives you the impression that the monkey is about to leap out and devour your face. I grab hold of the side of the frame as the monkey shrieks, and yank it forward. A wave of dizziness moves over me, and I’m nearly sick, but I grit my teeth and _pull_.

            The portrait swings forward, revealing a hole in the wall, and a staircase that hasn’t seen light in years. Lifting my wand, I wheeze, “ _Lumos_.”

            I climb the crumbling stairs, pushing with my feet, pulling with my free hand. I feel my blood splashing the steps. I’m nearly there—

            I can hear my own voice.

            If he’s still talking, she’s still alive.

            “You took him from me,” my voice snarls. “You stole away the only—good thing—”

            I reach the top of the stairs. For a second, I waver. It’s a very real possibility that I pass out and fall back down to the bottom. Can’t do that. Save McGonagall. Save Hogwarts.

            So long as I stand, so will these walls.

            I put down my head, and throw my shoulder against the wall.

            With a screech, it breaks against its bindings, and then it swings away from me. I’m hit with the light of the Headmistress’ office, and I’ve made it. I’m here.

            I’ll kill him.

            Not Me is gaping at me. McGonagall is flat on the floor, and he’s standing over her, my wand in his hand. McGongall isn’t moving. In a sudden flash of movement, Not Me turns my own wand against me.

            “ _Bombarda_!” I shout.

            Not Me hurls across the room, slamming against the wall. He drops to the ground in a heap.

            I push myself forward the last few steps, arm outstretched. “ _Accio_ wand!” My wand sails into my hand. Snatching it up, I fall to my knees. “Headmistress? Headmistress!”

            I shake McGonagall gently by the shoulders. She’s gone grey, her eyes closed. There’s not a mark on her, but—she’s not conscious. He’s hurt her—but she’s alive. She’s breathing.

            The portraits are yelling, completely out of control and offering pointless commentary. “Get help!” I roar. “Tell everyone—McGonagall is hurt! There’s an imposter in the castle—”

            A large dark shape is flung at me, and I’m too slow to react.

            I’m thrown onto my back, losing my grip on the wands. A fist slams into my face, and I see stars.

            Then I see my own face over me. But it’s not my face. My face has never looked like that. It’s cruel and insane, wild eyed and red. “You ruined— _everything_!” it shrieks, and another fist rams into my jaw.

            I can’t—I can’t—

            Hands fasten around my throat. They are like a vise. I slap against them, but nothing happens.

            The Neville Longbottom that is not me is sitting on my chest, strangling the life from me. He’s bright eyed, smiling madly. “All my hard work—all the planning—everything—you ruined it. But you don’t get to win, Neville. Oh no. No—I’ll kill you both. Hogwarts can have your bodies. I’m going to kill you, then I’ll finish her off. I hope you never wanted to leave Hogwarts, Neville. Because now you never will.”

            Can’t breathe. Spots in front of my eyes.

            My face. “That’s it, Neville. Let go. Let go.”

            For a moment, I’m not here at all. I’m by the sea, and Baltasar is turning to look at me over his shoulder. He smiles, and I can remember never being happier than in that one perfect moment.

            My face whispers, “Let go—”

            There’s a sound that’s almost indescrible. Like a stamp punching through something. Only much louder, and wet. Not Me hangs over me, and I watch my eyes go empty as his hold on me collapses.

            He stays upright long enough for me to see the massive hole punched through the left side of his chest, and then he falls ontop of me with all his weight. Over him stands Minerva McGonagall, wand still outstretched, swaying on her feet, hair sticking out every which way, but the victor nonetheless.

            Still can’t breathe. My throat’s on fire. I start coughing, sucking in air. He’s—heavy—Merlin’s beard, am I really that heavy?

            “Help me—Longbottom, I can’t do this myself.”

            I use my largely boneless hands to push at the body on top of mine. Together, McGonagall and I shove him off of me. He rolls onto his back, and stares at the ceiling with dead eyes.

            Still coughing, I manage to sit up. It’s hard to breathe. And I’m bleeding. I am really bleeding.

            McGonagall is seated next to me. She looks like she just fought a war. Catching her breath, McGonagall asks, “Are you all right?”

            “More or less,” I rasp.

            She pats my hand twice, then leaves it there, giving my fingers a squeeze. We take a moment to simply sit here, two old soldiers who won a battle we had no idea we’d be fighting today.

            I glance over at the corpse that looks like mine, and I shudder. “Yes,” McGonagall says. “Enough of that.” She lifts her wand. “ _Revelio_.”

            The body transforms. My blond hair turns sandy, and stubble grows. The hands grow red and gnarled at the knuckles. It’s quickly apparent that while it’s not my body, it’s a face that we both know. McGonagall and I glance at one another, then back at the body.

            Lying on the floor, heart blasted from his chest, is Herman Hauer.


	30. Chapter 30

I sit in a dark room behind a pane of glass. On the other side is a brightly lit room, with a table and three chairs. A man I don’t know sits at the table.

            He has black hair and black eyes. He sits quietly, small and self contained. There are shackles on his wrists, preventing him from doing any magic. Nonetheless, he’s neatly braiding his hair in two. He is calm and there is no telling what he might be thinking.

            I look at Baltasar, and I don’t understand how this happened.

            I’ve been patched up. My wounds are healed, and I should feel fine. I don’t. I’m disconnected. Everything that happened, I know it’s real. But I can’t force it to make sense.

            I was tricked. Four months. Four months of sharing his bed, of laughing with him, telling him my secrets, falling in love with him. Four months I knew this man. And I never knew him at all.

            The door to my room opens. I glance up as Dean steps inside. He has some file folders in his hand. He looks at me with pity. I can’t stand to see it, so I turn my eyes back to the two way mirror.

            Dean walks around me and has a seat. He clears his throat, straightening the files. “The Brult boy gave us everything he knew.” I nod, not particularly interested. Of course Wulfric talked. Cowards always do. “You terrified him. From the smell I’d guess he soiled himself several times before we found him.”

            “Do you expect me to feel sorry for him?”

            “No. Merlin, no. He knew what he was doing. If the MA got their claws into Hogwarts, it would have only been a few steps before students started dying. He seemed to be under the impression that if he told us everything, his sentence would be lighter.”

            “Conspiracy to murder a member of the Wizengamot,” I say hollowly. “Automatic life sentence in Azkaban. He’s seventeen. He’ll never take another step off the island once you ship him out there.”

            I don’t feel a flicker of remorse. Wulfric Brult is an adult, and he would have ended everything that makes Hogwarts great. Good riddance.

            “We didn’t have an inkling about Hauer,” Dean says. “Always vocal about despising Death Eaters. Overseas during the war, but there was never a hint of anything other than being one of ours. He was committed to the long game, I’ll say that much.”

            I shake my head. I should have known. I should have seen it. There were seams, of course there were. I was too busy—falling for the illusion. For as long as I’ve known him, Herman Hauer was planning to end my life—to end McGonagall’s—and I never saw it.

            “Dynes—we’ve only started on him. He’s a solicitor, so he knows that he’s going back to Azkaban for good. He’s already angling for favours. I think he’ll tell us every single thing he knows, eventually. In the end, though, it’s like finding a better seat on a sinking ship. This wasn’t a small operation, Neville. They needed the newspapers—people in high places who knew what Hauer’s game was—Dynes knows a lot of names.”

            “He thought he would be Headmaster. Of course he would be. Everyone knew we hated each other. Pick the person antithetical to infamous murderer Neville Longbottom. And he’d still be safe because he was known for despising Death Eaters. He had it all planned out.” Furrowing my brow, I give my head a shake. “It still doesn’t make sense. If McGonagall was gone, Flitwick would have been Headmaster.”

            “Apparently not. Professor Flitwick had some photographs stolen from his room. Not the worst I’ve ever heard of, but still fairly off colour for a Hogwarts professor. Apparently Dynes has them in a safe. If the day ever came when a new Head of Hogwarts was announced, Flitwick could either keep his mouth shut or face being dragged through the press.”

            I close my eyes briefly. “Wulfric. He hated being a Ravenclaw. He would have looked for any leverage he could find on Filius, any rumour. And Herman _was_ a Ravenclaw. He would have been able to get in and out of there without any issue.”

            I exhale. Stupid. How could I have been so stupid?

            I look through the glass at the man on the other side. He’s finished braiding the one side of his head, and now he’s moved on to the other.

            I don’t know him. I’ve _never_ known him.

            “His name is Leonard Okimaw.”

            Blinking, I look at Dean. “Sorry?”

            With a sympathetic smile, Dean pulls some papers from the file, and holds them out to me. I hesitate, but then I take them into my hands.

            It’s a criminal report. Statistics have been filled in. The top is marked as ‘Property of CMG,’ with a maple leaf in the corner. Pinned to it is a photograph. It’s the man I thought I knew, but it’s an old, old picture. He looks barely more than a boy. He’s lined up in front of a graph measuring his height. Blood trails from his nose, down onto his small teeth. With confidence only a teenager could possess, he raises an emphatic middle finger to the camera.

            I turn the page, unable to absorb any of the information. Leonard Okimaw. I’ve never known anyone by that name.

            “It’s _also_ Baltasar Byquist.”

            “What?” I say, and even I can hear how overwhelmed I sound.

            Dean turns back to the first page, pointing at some names. “His father was Michael Okimaw. His mother was Birgit Byquist. They died when he was an infant, but he was already in the care of his maternal grandmother. Leonard Okimaw was the name on the birth certificate, but his grandmother named him Baltasar Byquist, and that’s the only name he went by for the next sixteen years. He may not have even known he had another name. But once he left home, he started going by his birth name. That’s when he starts showing up in the Canadian authority’s records for the first time.”

            Dean passes me another sheet of paper. I immediately recognize the symbol of the tree, although I’ve only ever seen the outline. Large and reaching upwards, strong and sure. Above it are the words _Canadian Indian Liberation Movement_. Below it is what appears to be a manifesto.

            “CILM,” I say, connecting the dots.

            “These days, they go by the Canadian Indigenous Association. Gone mainstream. Back then, though? They were quite militant. His father was a founding member in the sixties. He and Byquist’s mother died when a bomb they were building went off accidentally. All evidence points to Byquist joining the organization when he was a teenager. Maybe he went looking for his parents, what happened to them. As it was, he joined at a rather eventful point in the organization’s history. Two years after he joined, they occupied the Canadian Parliament. They actually destroyed the building. It’s still standing, but it’s unusable. The Canadians had to build a dupe and glamour the original to fool the Muggles.”

            I stare at Dean. “Why didn’t I know about this?”

            “1996,” he answers.

            “We were busy.”

            “We were. So was he. He was right in the thick of it. Official accounts say that he was the last one standing when the building was reoccupied. Holding the Muggle prime minister at the point of his wand.”

            “Merlin’s beard.”

            “It was quite the political embarrassment, I suppose. CILM gathered more sympathy than expected. They had legitimate concerns that weren’t being addressed. They shouldn’t have bloody invaded the equivalent of the Ministry, but in the end, no one was killed. It was a mess for the government. They went relatively light on the protesters, all things considered, but him?” Dean points at the picture of Baltasar, and says, “They wanted to make an example of him. Son of the man who helped start the whole thing. Even if he didn’t kill anyone, he left more than a handful of security personnel severely injured. Not to mention the bit with the prime minister. They were going to put him away for good, but the International Indigenous Congress intervened. Worked out a deal. He could choose life in prison, or permanent exile. He chose exile. He hasn’t been allowed on Canadian soil for seventeen years.”

            “Seventeen years,” I echo.

            Dean nods, leaning forward. “After that, he was quite active with the IIC. He shows up in all kinds of records regarding indigenous people’s protests around the world for the next four years. Arrested plenty of times, but never for anything violent. Then I guess he went to a site down in Brazil, where some companies were trying to chase the tribespeople off the land. No one’s entirely sure what happened, but these businesses hired some pretty dark wizards. By the end of it, they’d killed all the people who lived there. I won’t show you the pictures, but…it was a brutal thing, Nev. There’s a report of Byquist showing up in hospital for more injuries than one person should have and still live, and then he just disappears for the next thirteen years. There are rumours. An arrest or two for petty theft. Nothing more than that.”

            I take a moment, and say, dumbfounded, “You told McGonagall all this?”

            “Yeah. It’s not like his past was any kind of secret. I didn’t think I’d find anything, Nev, she just asked me if I’d look into things—” I put up a hand, and Dean stops speaking. I rub my hand across my forehead, trying to let the facts sink in. “I would have come right to you, but…I knew you would be upset, and what I found, it didn’t make sense. For him to be up to no good. It made no sense for him to have this kind of past, and then be connected with these people. I thought maybe you’d just found someone who had as strange a background as yours.”

            I give my head a shake, upset. “I don’t understand.” I hold up the papers. “How does—how does a person go from _this_ —” I shake the papers at the two way mirror. “To _that_ in thirteen years? How do you go from fighting for equal rights to the MA?”

            “I don’t think he _is_ a member of the MA.”

            “The hell he’s not! McGonagall was nearly assassinated by a pack of fascists. I was nearly murdered by the MA, and _he_ —he stood over me and bloody _Avada_ _Kedavra_ ’d me, he was halfway through, if the wand hadn’t—”

            I stop talking, incensed. It makes no sense. It makes no sense why the wand did what it did when he stood over me, when he said the fucking _words_. I huff, dropping the papers into my lap. I could break the glass with my fists. I could throttle him, and he wouldn’t be able to do any tricks then. Those shackles keep him from performing magic outside himself. I could kill him right now.

            Four months.

I came to him when my _father_ died.

            Dean says gently, “I don’t think he’s a member of the MA.” I turn my head away, scoffing. Dean opens up the file in his lap, and lifts another page. I don’t care what he has. There’s nothing he could say that would make any of this better. Dean hesitates, then passes the page to me. “But she is.”

            I don’t look at first. I don’t care. I _don’t care_.

            I last four seconds before I look.

            I stare at the photograph. I take it into my hands, studying every inch of her face.

            She is the spitting image of the man in the photograph, and the man on the other side of the glass. She can’t be any older than Baltasar in the picture. Her hair is the same length, her eyes dark. The shape of her nose, her mouth, her chin. She even has his teeth, small and separated from one another. But where his face in his photo is confident and cool, there is something off to her eyes. Her mouth snarls. Baring her teeth, she laughs at the camera, and then screams.            

            “Her name is Jessica Martineau. She’s sixteen.”

            Mouth falling open, I say, “He has a daughter?”

            “Her mother was in CILM the same time as Byquist. He’s not on any birth certificate, and no one’s ever connected the two until a few months ago. The mother passed away a few years back, and she bounced around a lot. A bit too young for the Canadians to keep an eye on her in relation to the MA—at least until last spring. She and another member of the MA group they have for teenagers, they went out and found some random Muggle man. Murdered him. No reason, other than he was a Muggle.”

            “Fucking hell.”

            “The reports say she’s uncontrollable. A true believer in the cause. Regardless of her age. More or less another facet of Wulfric Brult. And the only reason Byquist was connected with her is that she was broken out of prison in April. Only her. No word of it through MA chains. But a Muggle security camera down the street—it caught video of him just before the break out. He hasn’t stepped foot in Canada for seventeen years, but he came back for her. Martineau, she disappears after that. The witch looking into the case, she’s heard murmurs. That Martineau’s being held back for something big. And Byquist, no one hears hide nor hair of him until you meet him in Fostham last August.” Dean sighs, then says, “Neville, I didn’t know about Martineau until yesterday. By the time I found out, you’d left Hogwarts, and I couldn’t find you. There was no way I could warn you. I should have worked faster. Maybe if I had…”

            I try to speak, but I’m not sure what words to use. Eventually, I say helplessly, “I don’t understand.”

            Dean props his elbows on his legs, looking over at me. “Nev—I don’t know for sure, but I’ll tell you what I think. I’ve given you the exam notes version, not the textbook. I think…there’s not much a man wouldn’t do for his child. I don’t know if he had any contact with her before the prison break. I’m inclined to think he didn’t. It doesn’t change the fact that she’s his daughter. And you know what kids are like. They don’t see things in shades of grey. There’s their side and the other side, and no ground between the two. When he broke her out of the jail, maybe he thought he could help her. Maybe it was just a plaster to try and fix the immediate problem. But she’s sixteen, and she’s a soldier for the MA. She killed a man just because he couldn’t do magic. The second she got back on the streets, you know she was going straight back to the Alliance.”

            Dean looks through the glass at Baltasar. “I think he made a deal with them. Whatever he’s been doing these last thirteen years…he’s only gotten more powerful. And this was a man who helped occupy the Canadian government when he was just a teenager. Maybe it was his idea, but I doubt it. Herman had already been trying to get into Hogwarts for a year, he’d already been accepted into the position. Maybe Byquist went to the MA and said, I’ll do whatever you need me to do. If you get her out of this.”

            “That’s a lot of supposition.”

            “Maybe. It doesn’t change the fact that twenty minutes after I arrived at Hogwarts this morning, I got the message that Jessica Martineau was dropped off at a wizarding hospital in Toronto. Her memory has been modified. She knows her name, but that’s all she knows. She can’t remember where she came from. She doesn’t know who left her there. The staff say she’s quite pleasant—if a bit frightened by the whole thing.” He looks back at me.

            I study him, and say, “Why are you telling me all this?”

            Dean sits back, shrugging. “I don’t know, Nev. Because you’re my friend, and this is about the shittiest situation you’ve ever been placed in. And that’s saying a lot. I think you deserve the truth. Above all else, you deserve the truth.” Dean takes a deep breath. “And.”

            “And what?” I say suspiciously.           

            “I’m not telling you what to do. But I think that when you make your statement to me and Pauline, once I’ve done with Byquist, you should think very carefully about what you say.”

            “How do you mean?”

            Tapping his hands together, Dean reminds me, “Attempted murder of a member of the Wizengamot. Automatic life sentence in Azkaban.”

            I hiss, with the shake of the head. “He deserves it.”

            “Maybe he does. He would have killed you. I’ll never say that you should feel good about anything that’s happened here. It’s bollocks, all of it, and I’m so sorry you’ve been placed in this position. I just…he had a different reason than the others.”

            “Then he can make his case.”

            “I don’t think he will,” Dean says. “The MA is going to have a very close eye on him. He knows that. If he talks, I doubt Jessica Martineau will live to see sunset. I’d bet money that we get the least from him of anyone.”

            I shrug. “Then he can rot.”

            Dean nods. “Well—bear it in mind.” He gets to his feet. “I should get in there. You can watch, if you like. Maybe you’ll get some answers.”

            “I don’t think I will ever get the answers for the questions I have.”

            “Fair enough.”

            “Dean?”

            “Yeah, Nev?”

            “What about me?”

            “What about you, mate?”

            “I used a fairly heavy hand today.”

            Dean snorts at that. “Nev—you prevented a coup at Hogwarts, and saved the life of the greatest witch alive. No one really gives a shit if it wasn’t bloodless. ”

            “I wouldn’t go that far. McGonagall saved _me_.”

            “Yeah, well, if anyone should be worried, it’s us. McGonagall can blow the heart clear out of a man’s chest. How is it that I’m a grown man and she still terrifies me?”

            “You think that’s bad, I see her on a daily basis. I’ll never be able to look at her the same way again. I actually think some of that heart is still splattered in my hair.”

            Dean taps the files against his hand, then says, “The Ministry is going to have some questions about your potions. Once this has settled.”

            “But I’ve only just started live testing.”

            “Seriously, Nev, this could create a sea change—”

            Tiredly, I say, “When they’re ready, the composition will be freely available. To everyone.”

            Dean pauses, then says, “We’ll have to discuss that—”

            “Can I just sit here and lick my wounds awhile?”

            “Of course.” He walks to the door.

            “Wait.” I hold up the papers. “Here.”

            Dean gives his head a shake. “You hang onto them for a few minutes.” I sigh, and he steps through the door.

 

No more than two minutes pass, and there’s a soft knock at the door. I lift my head from the papers I’ve been reading. The door opens, and McGonagall steps inside.

            I immediately drop my head. I can’t look her in the eye. I’m too ashamed.

            She takes the same seat Dean did, right beside me. I don’t look up, but I can see her looking through the mirror from the periphery of my vision. Her skirt is torn. Someone should have gotten her a change of clothes when they portkeyed us down here. She’s Minerva McGonagall. Someone should have gotten her something to wear.

            I look through the glass. Baltasar sits patiently at the table, hair plaited. His hands are folded. If he’s upset by any of this, he’s certainly not showing it.

            I close my eyes. I’ll get on my knees and beg her forgiveness. How could I have been so blind?

            “I’m so sorry,” I whisper. I clear my throat, and raise my voice a little. I feel her eyes on me. “You were right about everything. You were right, and…I nearly got us both killed. For nothing. I did everything they wanted. Exactly the way they wanted it done. I know I can never make this up. Whenever it’s convenient for you, I’ll pack my bags.”

            I twist my hands together. I rub my thumbnail. There’s a blood blister underneath it. Merlin only knows where I got that from.

            “Longbottom, don’t be melodramatic.”

            “Beg pardon?”

            McGonagall actually rolls her eyes at me. “You will not be leaving Hogwarts. I think we’ve had enough misfortune. I will not be parting with the country’s leading herbologist, simply because he’s feeling sorry for himself.”

            I gape at her. I throw an arm towards the window. “He was a spy. You told me and I ignored you and Herman almost destroyed Hogwarts!”

            “Yes, Longbottom, I was there.”

            I make sounds from the back of my throat. Disbelieving, small, distressed noises.

            McGonagall turns slightly towards me. “Neville. You just stopped the Alliance in its tracks. All of us walked into this trap. Not only you. The truth is, I behaved exactly how they expected me to. _I_ am the one who hired Herman in the first place. When the Magical Alliance of all things has your number, as it were, you cannot take the high road.”

            She doesn’t understand. “You nearly died. And it was my fault.”

            Bending my head, I finally let myself consider what the world is going to think of this whole disaster. I’ll be raked through the papers. Dalliance with foreign agent almost ends in Headmistress’ death. Poor Molly. She’ll have to get through that to reach the puzzles.

            “No,” I say. “She cancelled her subscription.”

            “I beg your pardon?”

            Rubbing my fingers into my eyes, I murmur, “Nothing. Just…talking to myself.”

            “Longbottom…I’m aware that I pushed you—”

            “It was for my own good. Clearly. Only I was too stupid to see it.”

            She wants me to stay at Hogwarts, but I don’t see how I can. Everyone will know. I can take a lot, but everyone knowing…he was in my bed. I fell in love with a man who didn’t exist. This will follow me to the end of my days.

            “The love of my life was a Muggle.”

            For a moment, I don’t react. Then I lift my head, confused. “Sorry?”

            McGonagall nods. She continues to study Baltasar through the mirror. “Dougal. I was eighteen years old. I was quite head over heels for him. I couldn’t tell my parents. Not that they were biased against such a thing; my father was a Muggle. But I knew they would be reminded of their own circumstances, which had never been easy. My friends all knew. They had a great many opinions. All of them, save one, were against it.” She looks at me. “Your grandmother.”

            “You must be joking.”

            “Oh no. Your grandmother and I haven’t always seen eye to eye on everything. The entire length of our friendship, we have equally been enemies.”

            “I think the kids these days call that frenemies.”

            McGonagall looks down her nose at that. “Longbottom, that’s preposterous.” I manage a smile. “Your grandmother has her flaws, but being anti-Muggle was never one of them. She told me, ‘Minerva, if you turn that man down, you’ll regret it until the end of your days.’ But everyone else was telling me that it was a mistake. I couldn’t bear to hurt my parents. And I couldn’t shake the feeling that I would be limiting myself if I accepted his offer. He did propose, of course. Only I had so many plans. I wanted to teach at Hogwarts. My secret dream was to one day run the school. If I were to marry a Muggle farmer, none of those dreams would come true. So when he proposed, I told him no. And I never saw him again.”

            I wait, then ask hesitantly, “ _Did_ you regret it?”

            McGonagall takes a breath. “I never allowed myself to consider it. Two decades went by, and I told myself that I’d made the only choice I could. I made the choice that was right for me. I never allowed myself to consider the alternative. Then the day came when he and his wife and children were murdered by Death Eaters. They had no idea of his connection to me, such as it was. They just considered it sport.”

            “I’m so sorry.”

            She nods, and says, “It was difficult to ignore the question after that. Did I make the right choice? I knew, I knew with a certainty that made no sense, that if I had married him, I could have saved him. He would have lived. I could have allowed that to torment me, or I could have set the question aside entirely. So that’s largely what I’ve done. He’s been dead nearly forty years, Neville, and I’ve never settled the question of whether I made the right decision. I think that I did. I know that I’ve done more good in this world than I ever would have, had I stayed with him. Or is that my trying to justify my choice? I could have married him and still been a Hogwarts professor. It just would have been harder. I don’t know if I could have succeeded. Only I never made the effort. I looked at it as a choice between one and another. The life I’d dreamed for myself, or the man I loved.”

            She looks at me, and I look back.

            McGonagall sighs, and says, “Neville—I have made many errors of judgment in my life. I thought that I had come to terms with underestimating you.” The word should send chills through me. Because it’s from her, it doesn’t hurt as badly as it might. “I thought I’d finished with that. Then I did it all over again. When I came to realize that my impressions of you as a boy had been mistaken, I came to envision an entirely new path for you from what I once expected. I imagined that you would follow in my footsteps. That you would one day take my place. That—is a lot to place on a man trying to make his own way in the world, to distinguish himself from those who came before him. I never asked you what you wanted. I merely told you what you should. And when this man came along…it made me angry. I not only considered it a betrayal of the path I’d laid out for you…but a critique of the choices I’d made. There was no way for you to know that. It’s not in my nature to confide in others my…feelings on certain matters. So I dug in my heels. Which only made you do the same. We’re stubborn creatures, you and I.”

            “But you were right.”

            Shaking her head, McGonagall says, “No, Neville. I wasn’t. _This_ man—he wasn’t worthy of you. But I would have behaved the same, regardless of the person you chose. My behaviour was most regretable. I own my share of the blame in this. I apologize, Neville. I hope you will accept.”

            “I nearly—”

            “ _Neville_. Will you accept my apology?”

            “How can I? When this was my fault?”

            Sniffing, McGongall reaches over. She takes my hand in hers. Her fingers are brittle, and I’m worried I might hurt her. “Neville Longbottom. You negated two of the Unforgivable Curses. You stopped every MA member who stood between you and I and Hogwarts. You came to my aid even when you looked like you’d just been chewed up and spit out by the Whomping Willow. Your successes overshadow any shortcomings. Now let’s _stop_ with the self pity, and move forward. Accept my apology this second.”

            I have to bite my lip. When I can open my mouth, I whisper, “Accepted.”

            McGonagall pats my hand. “Good. Now—whichever choice you make regarding your long term goals, I will support. But I will be _displeased_ if they do not involve Hogwarts in some small way.”

            She goes to move her hand away, but I hold onto it. She pauses, studying me, before sitting back. McGonagall gives my hand a squeeze, and we sit here, looking through the mirror.

 

The door to the other room opens, and Dean steps inside. I let go of McGonagall’s hand, leaning forward.

            Baltasar immediately asks, “Is Jessie okay?”

            Dean pauses. He closes the door and says cautiously, “She is.”

            “Is Neville?”

            Hearing my own name from his mouth gives me a shock. Baltasar gazes at Dean with that focus I find so familiar. Dean pulls out the chair across from Baltasar, and takes a seat. “More or less,” Dean replies.

            Baltasar drops his head. He exhales, and relief floods across his face. I can’t believe it, though. Everything this man told me was a lie. Baltasar lifts his head, nodding. For a second, he looks on the verge of tears.

            Opening one of his files, Dean says, “As you’ll imagine, I have a number of questions—”

            “I have nothing to say.”

            Dean folds his hands on the table. “I know you think that if you talk, she won’t be safe. But she’s with our people. She’s protected. If you tell us what you know, we’ll protect you as well.”

            Baltasar just sits there, unmoved. He suddenly smiles, a small smile, a sad smile, and says with some finality, “We were here before you. We will remain when your societies are ashes.”

            He sets his lips together, and goes still.

            “Mr. Byquist—or Okimaw, if you prefer—” Dean stops, studying Baltasar.

            Baltasar doesn’t move. He stares at Dean, unblinking. His skin is starting to turn red.

            “No,” Dean says, pushing his chair back. Baltasar coughs without opening his mouth, hunching in on himself.

            “What’s he doing?” I ask, rising from my chair.

            Dean darts for the door, opening it. “I need help!” he yells into the hall. “He’s stopping his heart!”

            “No,” I say, watching Dean run back to Baltasar.

            I’m standing right up against the glass as other Aurors run into the room. Dean has Baltasar on the ground, his wand out, but nothing seems to be working.

            I start tapping my fingers frantically on the glass. “Stop him—you have to stop him—don’t let him do this!” Baltasar is going purple, the Aurors surrounding him. I hit the glass with my fist. “Save him! Don’t let him do this—Baltasar, stop it! _Stop it_!”

            One of the Aurors flashes their wand at the glass, and it goes black.

            I’m left here, my heart in my throat.

 

The rake came out of the wand. He couldn’t have known it would happen. He was halfway through the words, and it happened. What was it he told me? It was four months ago. The rake will come out of the wand if a Byquist turns it on a loved one. I think that was it. I’m almost 100% sure that’s what it was.

            But what does it mean? He entrapped me. He tricked me into loving him. I fell in love with Baltasar Byquist, and the whole time he was leading me to my death. So why did the wand turn on him when he reached that end?

            He can’t love me. He can’t. I hate him. I have to.

            And still…

            What would I do for one of my kids? I’d kill for them. I’d die for them. That’s only my students. What would I do for my own flesh and blood? I honestly don’t know.

            “Professor Longbottom.”

            I blink, looking across the table. “Sorry.” Dean and Auror Switchley sit across the table from me. I vaguely remember Pauline Switchley. She was a few years ahead of me at school. I shift in my seat and ask, “Are you sure he’s all right?”

            They glance at one another. “He’ll be kept unconscious until we have word from the Unspeakables,” Dean says. Switchley gives him a look. He shrugs. “They’ll have a better idea than we do.”

            I nod. I’m very tired. The only day of my life as long as this one was in 1998. It must be dark outside, but we’re deep beneath the Ministry. I don’t know what time of day it is.

            “As I was saying, Professor,” Switchley says. She has dark hair and cat’s eyes that remind me a bit of McGonagall’s. McGonagall has gone back to Hogwarts. She gave her statement. She needs to get home. I honestly don’t know where I’ll go after this. I don’t know who’ll have me. “We’re interested in when you first met Mr. Okimaw.”

            Okimaw. Byquist.

            For all I know, they’re two sides of the same coin.

            “The Canadians will want him, won’t they,” I say, realizing.

            Switchley pauses, and Dean says, “Yeah.”

            “What’s the punishment he’d be facing there?”

            “Same as here. Life in prison.”

            “Thomas,” Switchley says, threatening.

            “But he’d be back in Canada,” I say.

            Dean nods. “He would.”

            The rake came out of the wand. _It’s him or her. It doesn’t matter how I feel._

            Before I can stop myself, I say, “You should give him to the Canadians.”

            Dean presses his lips together, and Switchley asks, “Why would you say that?”

            I settle into my seat, sitting up straighter. “Much as I’d like to throw the man under the Knight Bus, he was _Imperio_ ’d. Not the entire time, of course. He chose his lot when he went in with the MA. But near the end…” I take a deep breath. “He tried to leave a few times. Each time, he would just sort of snap back to himself, and continue on like he hadn’t said anything. I thought they were just doubts from how quickly we’d moved, but looking back, it’s actually quite clear. There was something off about him the last few days we had together. And the fight today—he didn’t even say a word. He was actually rather mechanical. I tried to snap him out of it, but—well, he didn’t have my potion, did he.”

            I’ve made my choice.

            I see Dean nod slightly. Switchley stares at me. She sighs, and says, “Professor—I understand that you’ve developed quite deep feelings for this man. It’s natural to want to protect him—”

            “I’m not protecting him. I’m telling the truth, which is more than he ever did for me. He signed up with these people but, much as I would like to tell you otherwise, he was coerced by the end. You can stick him in jail until the end of his days. But you might as well do it in Canada. He’ll be back in his home country, and he’ll be out of my hair. Frankly, I’d like him as _far_ from me as possible.”

            No one says anything a moment. Switchley is studying me closely. I don’t so much as flinch.

            With another sigh, she picks up her quill. “We can take that under advisement. Now—if we can return to when you first met Mr. Okimaw.”

            Lies beget lies. But at least this way, even with all my doubts, I’ll be able to live with myself.

 

When they let me leave the Ministry, it’s past midnight. I walk out into the street, eyes aching from exhaustion. The healers had their way with me, sure, but I still feel like the walking wounded.

            Where do I go?

            I can’t go back to Hogwarts. Not right now. I know that would be the responsible thing. Go back, try to clean up some of my mess. The thought of being there, though—I come up against a wall. I just can’t.

            Where else is there? It’s the only home I have left.

            If I had a family to go home to, that’s where I would go. I half want to go to St. Mungo’s, and lay my head on my mother’s lap, and let out all my sorrows. But my mother can’t hear me. She can’t comfort me.

            I need…

            Without giving it any more thought, I apparate.

            I come out at the end of the lane. The Burrow stands at the end. I don’t mean to go in. I just needed to see it. I needed to be close to this place, where I was once part of a family.

            Only the lights are on downstairs. Why are the lights on so late?

            Before I can question that any further, the front door flings open. Molly comes running out in her nightgown. “Nev!” she cries out in relief.

            I’m walking down the lane to her. Not very quickly. I don’t have the energy for it.

            When Molly reaches me, she starts looking me over. Trying to find injuries, I think. “We heard something happened,” Molly says, brow fretted with worry. “Arthur heard from inside the Ministry that McGonagall was attacked, that you were hurt—but he couldn’t get the details.” She stops. Gazing up at me, Molly says softly, “Nev?”

            I’m shaking all over. Wetting my lips, I murmur, “I know…I have no right to come here. Like this. I’m not…I used to be…and I’m not anymore…but this is the only place in the world I think I feel safe—”

            Molly steps forward, taking me by the front of the robes. “ _Stop_.” I look down at her, trembling. Molly looks up at me with the same loving eyes she’s always given me. “You’re as much my child as any one of my sons. That will never change. Never. Now—tell me what happened, sweetheart.”

            For the first time today, I start to feel like myself again. Only a broken, drained version of myself.

            “I fucked up, Molly,” I whisper, the first of many tears coming to my eyes. I nod, accepting the words as maybe the truest I’ve ever spoken. “I really fucked up.”

            I try to hold myself together, but I can’t. Molly pulls me into her arms. I hold onto her, the closest thing to a mother I’ll ever have, and she lets me cry. She sways me gently from side to side, murmuring to me.

            I see Arthur standing in the doorway of the house. He starts walking down the lane. I stop worrying about what they’ll think. I close my eyes, and hold Molly close.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are, at the end.  
> Thank you so, so much to the dedicated crew who read every day, who left comments, who flipped the table every time I toyed with your emotions. Writing this story was a joy, and being able to share it with you fantastic people was a pleasure.  
> Now let's see how it all wraps up...
> 
>  
> 
> __

I come to a stop before the building, and take out the slip of paper with the address on it. I want to make sure that I’ve come to the right place. It would be far too like me to get myself all prepared, then knock on the door and have an old woman answer, insistent that I’m her grandson, Juan. There’s precedent.

            But this is the right place. I tuck the paper back in my pocket, and give my robes a straighten. I’ve just had my hair cut and styled, so I don’t have to worry about that. Breath, right. I lift a hand to my mouth, giving a sharp exhale, then I sniff it. Not the worst.

            I’m working myself up. No need to be silly. I straighten my shoulders, and bound up the steps. The door is painted blue. I rap on it with my knuckles, then take a step back.

            It’s a beautiful, mid-January day. The skies are clear, the sun is shining. When I left Hogwarts this morning, it was grey and threatening to snow. But London—London practically feels like spring.

            I hear footsteps inside. I try to think of what to say. It’s been so long. There’s a pause, when the footsteps have stopped, but the door doesn’t open. Then it does, and Ginny’s standing in front of me.

            Just the sight of her—Merlin’s beard, the sight of her. Hair vibrant as a flame, cut short, setting off her pale skin and freckles. The scar across her nose from that brawl with the Cannons. She looks up at me, and I can see everything I feel reflected on her face. I’m overwhelmed just from looking at her.

            “Excuse me,” I say. “I was looking for the best Quidditch player in England, but I seem to have found the most beautiful woman in the world instead.”

            “Funny that,” Ginny replies. “Perhaps you’ve found both.”

            “Perhaps I have.”

            A smile splits her face, and she steps forward, lifting her arms. I pull her close, fighting the urge to just lift her off her feet. Oh—the way her hands feel on me. I forgot that she would do this. One arm looped around my neck, the other cupping the back of my head.

            I could hold onto her forever. Neither of us seem inclined to let the other go. “I’ve missed you,” Ginny whispers in my ear. “So much.”

            I nod. “You’re the best thing I’ve ever seen.”

            Ginny lets out a grumble, saying, “Suppose I have to let you go.”

            “Suppose.”

            We hang on for at least another minute. Ginny finally pushes back. Her bright brown eyes are sparkling. I can’t help myself. I put a hand to her face, rubbing my thumb over her freckles. She turns her face into my touch, so pleased to see me.

            I bend down and kiss her forehead, then wrap her up in my arms again. She puts her arms around my middle and lays her head against my chest.

            “If I decide to keep you, it’s your own fault,” Ginny murmurs.

            “If you decide to keep me, my plan will have worked.”

            She pats my sides. “You’ve lost weight.”

            “I’d tell you it was intentional, but it wasn’t. The house elves despair of me.”

            “Mum needs to get a few good meals in you.” She squeezes me, enough to make me cough, and says, “Well, come in. Tell me everything.”

            I balk. “I don’t know if you want to hear everything.”

            Ginny pulls back and says firmly, “But I do.” She takes my hand, and pulls me inside the flat.

 

Ginny comes into the room with two tumblers and a full bottle of Dragon Barrel Brandy. Eyes bugging out, I say, “Ginny _Weasley_ , it is one in the afternoon.”

            With a huff, she replies, “Well, you’re not getting fucking oolong.”

            She takes a seat beside me on the sofa. I try to subtly wipe my palms on my trousers. My hands are sweating. Ginny looks perfect. Even wearing a little patterned tee shirt that shows off the muscles in her arms. She knows that always drove me mad. She flexes a bit as she pulls the cork from the bottle, and I snort. Ginny glances at me with a grin. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

            “Speaking of oolong,” Ginny says, pouring us generous glasses. “How’s Augusta?”

            “You know, I haven’t heard.”

            “I find that hard to believe.”

            “As did I. I started to worry that something dire had happened, so I asked McGonagall. Apparently the lack of communication has to do with the death of Gran’s owl.”

            “Oh dear.”

            With a straight face, I tell her, “Agramon had a heart attack beneath the weight of all the Howlers and dropped dead over Carlisle.”

            Ginny lets out a cackle, then slaps a hand over her mouth. “I shouldn’t laugh,” she says, but her eyes are sparkling. She passes me a glass, then holds up her own. “To Agramon.”

            “To Agramon,” I echo, tapping my glass to hers, then I take a sip.

            Ginny turns sideways on the couch to face me, propping up her head. “You’ve come from St. Mungo’s?”

            “I did.”

            “How was that?”

            I love her for it. She doesn’t ask how my mother was, because she knows the answer will always be the same. “Fine. I was able to tell Mum about my breakthrough.” Ginny suddenly punches me in the arm, and I yelp. Blimey, that stings. “What?!”

            “I told you, didn’t I? I told you it would work.”

            “You did, yeah.”

            “I nearly burst a seam at how fast _The Daily Prophet_ changed their tune. Neville Longbottom—genius, creator of the Anti-Unforgivables. Is that the title you’re going with, by the way?”

            “Oh, I don’t know. I still have to work on the formula a bit—”

            “Neville. It works. You proved it.”

            “It all just happened rather quickly.”

            “Yes. I imagine it did.”

            I narrow my eyes at her. “Have you been reading _The Prophet_ this whole time?”

            “Oh, you know me. I’ve only ever subscribed for the sports section,” Ginny lies, avoiding my eyes.

            We say nothing for a moment. I tap my fingers against my glass. I wonder if this is the brandy she got for Christmas when she was twenty-three. It was a gift from the head of the league. I didn’t think she’d ever open it.

            Ginny says quietly, “I wish you had let me come to the Burrow.”

            Grimacing, I respond, “It was embarrassing enough, hiding in your parents’ house for three days—”

            Ginny pushes me. “Don’t say that,” she admonishes. “As much as she was worried sick, Mum was over the moon to have someone to fuss over, especially when it’s you. And Dad—he’s missed you terribly, Nev. Everyone has.”

            I bite my lip, then shake my head. “What about you? Ron says you’re about to announce your retirement. Don’t tell him I told you, but—”

            “Nev.”

            “What?”

            Ginny gives me a look. It says, _I’ve known you twenty years. I know you better than anyone ever has, or ever will._

            Sighing, I look down into my glass. “I know.”

            “I’m not saying you _have_ to tell me. I mean, I’m dying with curiosity. Actually dying, I have this pain, right here—” She points to the right side of her stomach. I smile slightly. Settling against the couch, Ginny says, “I just can’t sit here and pretend.”

            “Yeah. It’s just…it’s hard telling you. If I were to tell anyone, it would be you, but…it’s also hard telling you, of anyone.”

            She doesn’t prompt me anymore. She sits there, waiting. I wonder if it’s Professor Sprout’s trick. Leave them waiting long enough, they tell you anything you want to know.

            So I tell her everything.

            I tell her about Fostham. I tell her about the day I was walking through town and caught sight of a man with bright blue eyes, holding a crowd of Muggles in the palm of his hands. I tell her about chips and curry sauce. I tell her about thirteen inches, and the cottage by the sea, and the last words Baltasar said to me before we parted.

            I tell her about the start of the school year. I tell her about Lavinia, about Wulfric. I tell her that McGonagall meant to have me as Headmaster one day. I tell her about xiddigs and wildrose and agony vine. I tell her about Herman looming over Lavinia in the hall, and what his face felt like against my fist. I tell her how I wish that I’d just killed him then.

            I tell her about an unwelcome face, and skipping rocks across the Black Lake. I tell her about kissing Baltasar so hard I cut his lip. I tell her about Cheshire’s Point, and the papers, and the first hints of conflict with McGonagall. I tell her about a teenage boy trying to cast a spell on me that he couldn’t know would never work. I tell her about my snide comment to Lavinia, and how that was the day my father died.

            I tell her about the funeral. I tell her about carrying my mother away from the grave, dirt still covering her face. I tell her how Baltasar was the one I went to when I could not bear another second. I do not tell her that I threw away her letter. I tell her about McGonagall, and Dean, and the fight when Baltasar told me to leave. I tell her that Lavinia called me a hypocrite. I tell her about Aberforth calling me to The Boar’s Head, and how I pleaded with Balatasar to stay, and how he wept in the streets. I tell her about Christmas Day.

            I tell her about waking up in that transfigured shack out on O’Dwyer’s Bluff. I tell her that I looked in my own face as it told me I’d always be known as the man who killed Minerva McGonagall. I tell her about Wulfric pointing a wand in my face and actually saying the word and nothing happening. I tell her I killed two people.

            I tell her the man I thought I was in love with was waiting for me. I tell her everything he said. I tell her everything I said. I tell her that he was stronger than me. I tell her that it was luck and nothing else that kept me alive. I tell her that I don’t know why I let him live.

            I tell her that if Teddy Lupin hadn’t encouraged his grandmother to go on holiday, McGonagall and I might both be dead. I tell her about the secret passage behind the monkey. I tell her what it was like to see myself standing over McGonagall with murder in my eyes. I tell her that McGonagall saved me by blowing a man’s heart clear out of his chest.

            I tell her about Leonard Okimaw. I tell her that, thanks to my lies, he’s being sent back to Canada today.

            I tell her that I can’t sleep. I tell her that it’s hard to look at anyone’s eyes. I tell her that even though the papers are saying I’m a hero, I feel like a fool. I tell her that I don’t know if I can forgive anyone for this, but most of all myself. I tell her that I ran into Padma Patil, and all she could say was, “I didn’t know—I swear I didn’t know.” I tell her that I said, “Yes you did,” and walked away. I tell her that I don’t know how I’m supposed to spend another second at Hogwarts. I tell her how I don’t know how I can spend a minute away.

            I tell her that I don’t know what to do.

 

When I finish, I wait for Ginny to say something. Anything. She’s been quiet the whole time. She hasn’t had to say anything—I know her face so well that each tic, each narrowing or widening of the eye, was enough for me to know exactly how she felt.

            I watch her, my shoulders hunched. The longer she doesn’t say anything, the more anxious I get.

            Ginny finally moves her hand away from her mouth and says, “I _hate_ him.”

            I let out a breath, relaxing.

            “I can’t… Neville. Hm. How do I say this politely? I have a moderate amount of gold, and given the opportunity, I would use a large portion of it to invest in some sort of system that would yank the intestines from his body, through his anus, only to stuff them back in, so that the process could be repeated.”

            “Descriptive. I don’t see why you have to be polite about it.”

            “Because you don’t hate him.”

            I blink, startled. “I—I _despise_ him. I—there is no one on the face of this earth who despises Baltasar Byquist more than I do.”

            “That’s impossible, because I hate him the most. He hurt you, and no one will ever hate anyone more than I could for that.”

            “I appreciate that, Gin, but—”

            “Nev.”

            “What?”

            Ginny juts her chin towards me, and says kindly, “You’re still wearing his necklace.”

            I immediately pull my collar tighter. “I can’t get the latch,” I say defensively. “My fingers are too clumsy.”

            “Weak, Nev.”

            “I don’t know why I’m still wearing it, all right?” I’m blushing, upset with myself.

            “You’re wearing it because you still love him.”

            “I do _not_ , Ginevra.”

            “Neville. You can lie to yourself all you like, but you can’t lie to me.”

            Frustrated, I say, “Ginny—did you not just hear me tell you all he did to me—”

            “I heard you. And I hate him. But you don’t hate him. You wish you did. You wish you could. But you don’t. And that’s okay. I’ll take your quota of hating him.”

            “I just…I disagree.”

            “You should hear yourself talk about him. It’s hard to hear. Even though we’ve been broken up as long as we have.”

            I look to the ceiling, taking a deep breath. “How do I talk about him?” I ask reluctantly.

            “Like…he was everything you wanted that you didn’t know you wanted.” I bend my head, unable to look at her. “Do you really think it was luck that saved you?”

            “Had to be.”

            “You think the thing with the wand was just another trick?”

            “How would I know? Obviously I couldn’t tell if anything he ever told me was true.”

            “All right.”

            “Stop it.”

            “Nev, I’d love to sit here and tell you that he was just a piece of shit. And in my opinion, that’s what he is. I don’t have the space inside my chest for all the hate I have for the man. But…I don’t think it’s good for you to believe any more lies. It’d be easy to say that it was all just a lie. That nothing he told you was true. That he didn’t care about you. That would make it easier, wouldn’t it? Because otherwise, it is so, so messy. There’s no easy conclusion with messy. It’s hard to move on with things so messy.”

            “He tried to kill me.”

            “He did, and I’d kill him with my bare hands if I could.” Ginny takes a breath, then says grudgingly, “But…Aberforth liked him. I’ve never met a more cynical man alive. He’s the harshest judge of character I’ve ever known. And Aberforth liked him. What do you think that says?”

            “Aberforth can hardly look me in the eyes, he feels so stupid about the whole thing.”

             “Nev. His own wand turned on him when he turned on you. If he didn’t have feelings for you, do you really think it would have done that? It would have killed him, if you hadn’t saved him.”

            “What are you trying to do here?”

            “I just…I don’t want to see you try and deny…something that was so important to you. You’re not the kind of man who takes the easy way out. It’s one of the very best things about you. Pretending that this man wasn’t…a big part of your life… I don’t like to see you lie to yourself. I want you to heal. I don’t want you to be carrying this until you die. I never want to see you just shut off something inside yourself.”

            I shrug and say softly, “What does it matter—if he did care about me?”

            Ginny gazes at me, and says, “It is easier for me to believe that he started something he shouldn’t have, and fell in love with you, than he didn’t care the entire way through. Because everyone falls in love with you, Neville. They can’t help themselves.”

            Getting even more pink, I murmur, “I think you’re talking about yourself.”

            Ginny says nothing for a long stretch. “You said he’s leaving today. Has he gone yet?”

            “I don’t know. The Aurors are passing him off to the Canadians at Cape Cornwall.”

            “Who told you that?”

            “Dean.”

            “Dean seems to think that you have another chance for answers.”

            “I’m not getting any answers from that man.”

            “Maybe you don’t. But if you don’t try, are you ever going to have another chance?”

            “I am not going to _Wales_. I told you, I’m here for the day with you, I want to see you. I want you to tell me all your stories—”

            Ginny puts her hand over mine. I can see that it kills her to say it, but Ginny lets out a long sigh. “I think you should go.” I stare at her. She can’t be serious. Ginny scratches her thumbnail against my skin, and says, “I’ll make you a deal. Today can be about you. I want you to do…what’s best for you. Not because it makes me happy, because it doesn’t. You should do it because it’s what’s best for you. And then, next weekend—I can come up to Hogsmeade. And that can be my weekend.”

            She looks at me from under her brows.

            I nod. “I’d like that.”

            “I’m…I’m going to have a lot of time on my hands pretty soon. Would…would it be okay if I came up to see you sometimes?”

            There’s this fragile, tender thing between us. “I would like that very much.”

            Ginny Weasley, love of my life, smiles.

 

Of course I end up running down the path to the cape, because I got bloody _lost_ , of course I did—

            It’s grey and chilly and the sky is threatening to spill rain. London seems like it’s on the other side of the world. I thought I was apparating to the cape and ended up in a grocery store in Fishguard. Fucking typical.

            At the top of the hill, below the free standing chimney, I see five figures. I’d know Dean from a kilometer away. There’s an Auror with him that I don’t know, and striding towards them are two large figures in maroon robes.

            Between Dean and the Auror is a small figure in a denim jacket, hands shackled, dark hair blowing in the wind.

            “Wait!” I holler.

            Everyone looks down the hill at me, startled. The backs of my calves are burning. I don’t know why I’ve thought it was a good idea to do all this running lately—I’m utterly useless at it—

            I half jog, half hop the rest of the way, heaving as I try and catch my breath. “Wait,” I say, lifting a hand. I have to lean over, bracing my hands on my thighs. I’m actually a bit dizzy. I meant to come out a bit closer, but then again, I never meant to go to Fishguard. Standing up, feeling a bit proud, I announce, “I made it.”

            Baltasar is staring at me with wide eyes. I look at everyone. Dean glances back at the women in maroon and says, “Can we have five minutes?”

            One of them shrugs, lowering her wand. “It’ll take that long to make the trans Atlantic portkey. As soon as it’s ready, though, we go.”

            Dean nods, then looks at Baltasar. He gives him a light shove. Baltasar hesitates, then walks across the grass to me.

            I find it difficult to stay where I am. His face isn’t the face I’ve known. His hair is black, and his eyes are black. I find that I miss his blue eyes.

            Baltasar stops in front of me, seemingly at a loss. “I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

            “I didn’t think you would either.”

            Baltasar looks me over, then balks. “You’re still wearing the necklace,” he says, taken aback.

            I shrug, wishing people would stop noticing. “I like the design,” I lie.

            “It was my father’s.” I glance down at myself, surprised. Baltasar starts shaking his head. “You need to get rid of it,” he says quietly. “You can be tracked with that. It’s how I found you.”

            “Oh.”

            We both just sort of stand here. I shuffle my feet a bit. Baltasar looks away, muttering, “Fuck.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Awkward.”

            “Yeah.” I clear my throat. “So—Leonard.”

            He scoffs, looking irritated. “Let’s not. It’s obviously Baltasar Byquist. If anything, that fucking wand proved it.” His hair is pushed in front of his face by the ocean breeze. I want to tuck it back, but I keep my hands at my side. Baltasar reaches up with his shackled hands, pushing his hair back carefully behind each ear. “So…about that.”

            “Yeah?” I say nervously, not knowing what he could possibly say.

            Baltasar doesn’t appear to either. He gives a short laugh, looking towards the ocean. “Pretty inconvenient way to find out I really love you.” His voice breaks on the last word. It sounds almost like a sob.

            I stare at him. Baltasar freezes. His face goes dark.

            “No,” Baltasar growls. “No, I’m not going to—I’m not going to cry about it to _you_ , of all people. I’m not.” He shakes his head, furious with himself. “God. God, what a fucking disaster.”

            “That’s a start.”

            Baltasar sniffs, hard, then stares out at the ocean a moment with red eyes. He coughs, then says, “You heard about Jessie.”

            “I did.”

            Baltasar nods. “I’m not going to use her as an excuse. I did what I did, and that’s it.”

            I look at him, this stranger—this man who’s not a stranger to me at all. I ask him the question I _need_ the answer to. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

            “Don’t.”

            “Don’t what?”

            “Make it seem like I’m anything other than what I am. I know you. You’re going to want to make this better. Maybe take some of the edge of this. Let’s just leave it at, I’m a bad guy, and you can just move on with your life.”

            I shake my head. “You tried to leave,” I say quietly, and Baltasar closes his eyes. “You tried to leave before Christmas. That wasn’t fake, was it. The times you tried to get me to leave Hogwarts—”

            “Neville, stop it. It doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t matter.”

            “It matters to me,” I say, hurt.

            Baltasar looks up at me. I gaze back at him. He exhales.

            “I didn’t meet her until I broke her out of that prison. I’d never even spoken to her. I didn’t know she existed until her mom died. Daisy—I was seventeen, trying to prove to myself that I wasn’t gay. If I’d known about Jessie then, I wouldn’t have cared. It was just about the cause. The cause, the cause, the cause. Making a difference, making things better, making them pay for what they’d done. So convinced I was doing the right thing. I was willing to sacrifice everything and everyone for what I thought was right. There’s this sick thing that stretches all up and down my dad’s side of the family. We find some cause to hitch ourselves to, and burn ourselves out. We die for our causes, and it doesn’t fucking matter, because nothing ever changes. When I was eighteen years old, I had my hands on a man who represented every fucking hateful thing that government ever did to my nation, and I chose to let him live because I thought it would make a statement. Sixteen years later, we still don’t have running water, we die from our hearts giving out, our women—our mothers, our sisters, our daughters, they’re being murdered and disappeared. They’re disappearing, same as they always have, and no one gives a shit. That doesn’t change.

            “You learn that. If you come to your senses. People will give you lip service about making things better, and they’ll mean it for a second, but once things are better, they stop caring. Things get bad again, and they’re shocked. But it’s just the way things are. The strong always destroy the weak. They use them up until they’re no good anymore, and they cast them outside. That’s the world. There’s no sides. There’s just everyone scrambling to try and get some measure of power, and the rest of us trying to stay the fuck out of their way.

            “Jessie—she’s being used, and she doesn’t even get it. Once I knew who she was—what she was doing, I tried everything. I tried for years to get in touch with her, to get people who would get her away from these fucking fools. They’ll win for a few years, and then they won’t, and in the meantime, they’ll use people like her and spit them out. Do you think anyone cares if my daughter dies in their crusade? They don’t give a damn. She’s young, and she’s brown, and she’s a woman, and that means she’s expendable. But I’ll be goddamned if my daughter is just one more dead Indian.”

            Baltasar shakes his head, his lips pressed together. “I’m not saying I’m a good father. I’ve stolen her autonomy from her. But she’s sixteen, and she doesn’t know what I know. She doesn’t know that causes are just a meat grinder. When she’s an adult, she can do whatever the fuck she wants, but right now, she’s sixteen, and she doesn’t know shit. I’m not a good dad, and she’s not a good kid, but she’s _my_ kid, and I would do anything— _anything_ —if it meant giving her a chance to escape all this.”

            He shrugs, helpless. “Only you really fucked it up, Neville.”

            Baltasar sighs through his nose. “I’m not going to tell you…I’m not gonna go into it. It’s not like I had to jump any major moral hurdles when they asked me if I’d help kill someone. I’m not going to go into telling you what it was like, realizing what a fucking mistake I’d made—when I realized what you meant to me. Because then it looks like I’m trying to get your pity, and I don’t deserve anything other than you throwing me off a balcony. It doesn’t matter if I love you. What matters is that I did this even knowing that I loved you. That’s not the kind of mistake a person can be forgiven for.”

            He shakes his head again, and a tear falls from his eye. I swallow. I’ve got this thing in my throat that feels like a wad of cotton.

            Baltasar says, “Do something for me?”

            “What?” I ask, choked.

            “The next person who comes along—just go for it. Don’t let _this_ fuck you up for life. I was a mistake, but there’s no way you could have known you were making it. The next person who comes along, who you really like, don’t let this clusterfuck mess that up for you. You deserve to be happy. You didn’t deserve _this_. You’re the most fundamentally decent man I’ve ever known. It’s going to sound really weird coming from me—after I literally tried to kill you—but I want you to be happy.”

            I want to be back in Fostham. I want to be on the beach, watching him play with fire between his hands.

            “I still love you,” I confess, flabbergasted by the knowledge.

            “I know.” Baltasar jiggles his foot, then says in a rush, “I am so sorry.”

            Maybe they’re just words. They’re words that should have no meaning, only they do. I can tell by the way he says them. I shouldn’t believe a word out of this man’s mouth. But I do. I do.

            “We’re almost ready here,” one of the Canadians calls.

            So soon? I can’t—Merlin’s beard. I can’t just let him go. I’m never going to see him again. The thought makes me ill.

            When I look back to Baltasar, he’s gazing at the Aurors. He turns back to me. “So I guess this is—”

            _Neville, can you hear me_? _I need you to blink once if you hear me._

His mouth is still moving, he’s still speaking, but he’s gazing right into my eyes. I stare at him, then blink.

            _The MA is everywhere. I’m not making it to Canada alive. Those two are MA. Stop it, don’t look at them. Listen to me. You cannot leave Hogwarts. Do you understand me? The hat was right. If you stay at Hogwarts, you’ll be safe. You can fight them from there. The kids will be safe if you stay there. You will be safe if you stay there. Don’t leave Hogwarts. Tell me you understand_.

            His mouth stops moving, and he gazes at me in expectation.

            “I understand,” I say faintly. “We have to—I’ll tell Dean—”

            “It’s okay,” Baltasar murmurs. “I deserve it, don’t I?”

            I stare at him, and say, “No. You don’t.” I realize that I mean it. “You don’t.”

            Baltasar drops his head. “I meet the perfect man, and he’s the guy I’m supposed to kill. Par for course. Okay. Okay, I gotta go.”

            “No.”

            “It’s, uh—not super negotiable, Neville—”

            “ _No_. You’ve said all you need to say, but—but I have plenty I have to say to you! And I can’t just say it all in a few seconds before you just leave me.” I look at the others, desperate. They’re watching us, expectant. I turn back to Baltasar, and tell him, “I am so angry. I am so fucking angry that you put me in this position. It didn’t have to be like this. If you had told me—if you had told me at any point what was happening, I could have done something, it could have been different—we could have had something other than _this_ , if you really do love me, if you mean that. And I don’t know why, but I think that you do. I trusted you. I trusted you, and you nearly took everything from me. I can’t forgive that. It wasn’t a mistake, it was a choice, and I don’t think I can ever forgive that. Only I can’t ever forget how you make me feel either. What am I supposed to do, Baltasar? I have—I have so many questions, and I’m never going to _see_ you again, and…damn you. And you think I’m going to let you go off with people who would hurt you, you must be insane. I’m so angry with you, but I don’t want…”

            “We need to go,” one of the women call.

            “Just a minute!” I turn back to Baltasar, who’s waiting patiently. “I can’t…I can’t just let this go,” I admit. “That’s what I’m supposed to do, isn’t it. Just move on with my life. How am I supposed to do that? How am I supposed to say goodbye to you?”

            Baltasar smiles slightly. “You could kiss me goodbye.”

            I nearly bark. Kiss him goodbye. He must be mad.  

            The wind forces his hair forward again. This time, I reach out and brush it away from his face. His eyelids dip for a second. It’s been weeks since I’ve touched him. I’m nearly sick to my stomach from missing the sensation of my skin on his skin. And now I’ll never touch him again.

            I lean down and kiss him.

            At first, I think I’ve taken him off guard. He didn’t expect me to do it. But Baltasar hesitantly tilts his head upwards, pressing his lips to mine. I kiss him goodbye, because it’s the only option left to me.     

            It wasn’t meant to be, he and I, for any number of reasons. Foremost among them that he was plotting my death. Still—I think I’d keep him if I could.

            Someone is calling out to us, telling us to move apart, but we don’t listen. Baltasar rubs his cold nose against my cheek, giving my lips another small kiss, then he gently pushes something into my hands. I look down to see what he could possibly have given me.

            His shackles.

            My head whips up. Eyes turning blue, Baltasar smiles at me crookedly.

            “Be seeing you,” he says, and disapparates.

 

 I walk back to Hogwarts as the sun dips below the mountains. I stop at the edge of the lake, tracing the silhouette of the castle. Each window is a memory. A battle won, a battle lost. This place has stood, against all odds, for a millenia. I’ve been fortunate to play some small part in its story.

            Perhaps I will yet to come.

            I take a breath, and walk the rest of the way.

            I hear voices before reaching the courtyard. Students shouting. Laughing. A snowball goes flying over the walls, sailing towards the Black Lake with a comet tail of green sparkles. Someone screams, “You sodding cheat!” I go to watch.

            It’s an absolute melee. There’s at least a hundred students in the courtyard, with no obvious allegiance. Everyone is just throwing snowballs at everyone else. Students of all ages are running around, mercenary in their targets. Lucien runs by with snowballs in both hands, screaming, “FOR RAVENCLAW!”

            Augustine runs after him. “I say!” he puffs. “This isn’t the sort of image we want to project!”

            I crack up, wrapping my arms around myself. I watch as the Head Boy—a Slytherin—picks up a first year Hufflepuff, brushing the snow off her. Then he shows her how to spell snow together. The captain of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team suddenly flies three meters up into the air, shrieking, and half a dozen people catch him in the air. These insane people. These beautiful children.

            I see Evangeline and Olive, off to the side. They’re holding hands, and Evangeline is trying to look above everything that she’s seeing. But then Olive subtly flicks their wand, and a wet snowball abruptly explodes on Evangeline’s face. She shrieks, indignant, then starts chasing Olive, square into the middle of the fight.

            It’s a pity I’m too old to join them. I couldn’t. I’d have an unfair advantage.

            Still—

            “Professor,” someone hisses.

            I look back, and roll my eyes. “Teddy! Stop doing that.”

            “Doing what?” Teddy replies, trying to look the picture of innocence. He’s wearing a new Weasley jumper in blue and silver, and a floppy jester’s hat made of very thick wool.

            “Sneaking about like—you know what. I’m not going to stifle you. What can I help you with?”

            “Well—first, let me just say thank you for getting me the—” He starts winking aggressively.

            I slam an index finger up to my lips. “ _Shh._ ”

            Teddy looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Who do you think is listening?”

            I walk closer to him, wishing I could be annoyed with him. Lowering my voice, I say, “I thought we agreed, you can stop thanking me, and if McGonagall ever finds out that I returned the map, you swear you’ve never met me in your life.”

            “Of course, sir.”

            I look down at him, not that much shorter than me, and the spitting image of his father. “If that’s the first thing, what’s the second?”

            “Nothing, just…if you were headed that way, maybe you want to stop by the greenhouse?”

            After a beat, I say, “Would you stop doing that?!”

            “Doing what, sir?”

            “Being cryptic! Why do you want me to go by the greenhouse?”

            “I never said you should go by the greenhouse. I’m only saying, if you—” He starts winking again. “Want to go by the greenhouse—”

            I wave my hands. “Stop that, it’s making my eyes hurt. Why would you—” I put a hand up to my forehead, exasperated. “Teddy—let’s try something, you and me. You tell me why you think I should—”

            There’s a particularly loud wail from behind me, and I look towards the courtyard. I don’t see a spray of blood or anything equally alarming, so I turn back to Teddy. Only the little bugger’s up and vanished.

            I stand here, mouth open, then I say, “Twice in one day! This is not appreciated!”

 

So I go to the greenhouse. Of course I do. It’s much quieter on this side of the castle. The snow is fresh here, not yet mauled by small hands. I’ve got a terrible pit in my stomach. This day has been eventful enough. If Teddy opens some new can of worms for me—

            I walk up the path to the greenhouse, not seeing anything amiss. It’s in one piece, blessedly. If it was destroyed twice in a year, that would be suspect. I stick my hands in my pockets, wondering what I’m supposed to be looking for.

            When I hear noises coming from the side of the greenhouse, I sigh. The obnoxious thing about Teddy is how frequently he’s right. Pity he’s not in my House. Then again, I’d have to keep eyes on him at all times, and that’s a quick prescription for going insane.

            I walk around the side of the greenhouse, away from the path, and freeze. There’s a child half in/half out of the back window. She’s barely got her leg slung over the window sill, red faced and struggling to pull herself inside.

            “Lavinia?”

            Her head whips around, and she loses her hold. With a shriek, she tumbles backwards, falling with a thump onto the snow. She just lays there, limbs splayed in every direction.

            I dart across the snow to her. “Oh dear—oh no.” When I get near her, though, she sits up, hair full of snow, her mitten torn. I stand over her, dumbfounded. “ _Lavinia_.”

            Lavinia slaps her hands down on her thighs and wails, “I killed another xiddig!”

            It’s so unexpected that I don’t reply at first. “You what?” I ask, crouching down.

            Lavinia screws up her face and everything comes out in a flood. “I killed our xiddig! Again! Courtney wouldn’t help me with it because she said I screwed up the last one so I had to take care of this one by myself and she said she’d put snakes in my bed if I messed it up and I have! I followed the instructions but it’s not working and I thought if I could look at your books I could figure it out and I killed another xiddig and Courtney’s going to kill me!”

            “Lavinia—”

            “Courtney’s going to kill me and I’m going to fail Herbology and I’ll have to go back to Ilvormorny and I don’t want to go back to Ilvormorny, I want to stay here, but everyone thinks I’m evil and hates me and everyone’s going to say ‘I told you so’ when I get thrown out and I’ll never ever be a herbologist—”

            “ _Lavinia_ ,” I say loudly. “Breathe.”

            “Everyone hates me and they should! I’m useless!” She throws her hands down and starts to cry.

            I take a deep breath to compensate for the one that she hasn’t. I take a look around, then I just plop myself down in the snow in front of her.

            “All right,” I say. “Let’s talk about this. Is the xiddig really dead?”

            “It’s dead!”

            “What colour is it?”

            “It doesn’t matter, I killed it—”

            “Lavinia, tell me what colour it is.”

            She sniffles, wiping at her nose with her mitten. “Brown. But not the brown it’s supposed to be.”

            “Now—you know that if it was really dead, it would be grey. So it’s not dead. Is it sort of a sandy colour?” Lavinia nods, gulping. I nod with her. “So it’s sick, not dead. You know that. If you didn’t know that, you wouldn’t be trying to break into the greenhouse to look in my books.”

            “You’re going to expel me.”

            “No. I mean—I _am_ going to give you detention and take ten points from Gryffindor, and if this ever happens again—”

            “It won’t,” Lavinia says quickly.

            “You’re not going to be expelled, Lavinia. And the only way to really fail Herbology is if you burn down the greenhouse. You only blew it up once, accidentally.” She lets out a hiccup, and I smile at her. “That was a joke, Lavinia. It’s okay.”

            The way she looks at me… Hopeful. Afraid. She looks at me like a child does, and I don’t know why I didn’t just _get_ that before.

            “The next time that you’re having a problem with a project, I want you to come see me during office hours. We’ll sit and we’ll discuss it, so that I can help you. I can’t just let you into my books, because then you’d have an unfair advantage over everyone else. Not every student can afford the ingredients listed in those books to raise a xiddig with. I want everyone to have a level playing field. Does that make sense?”

            Lavinia nods, then says helplessly, “I feel so _stupid_.”

            “Me too.”        

            She squints at me, confused. “Why do _you_ feel stupid?”

            “Because I haven’t been very kind to you.” Lavinia pulls her head back, startled. I shrug, and say, “Not being cruel doesn’t mean that I’ve been kind. That’s not how I’d expect my students to conduct themselves. I’m embarrassed that I didn’t make you feel as welcome as I should have. So I hope you’ll accept my apology.”

            “Oh—it’s okay—”

            “No. It wasn’t. And I’m sorry.”

            Lavinia blushes. She wipes at her cheeks, then clears her throat. “Apology accepted. I’m sorry I’ve…been so annoying.”

            It would be easy to say ‘apology accepted’ as well. Instead, I tell a white lie. “You haven’t been annoying. You’ve just been eager to prove yourself.”

            “I broke into your greenhouse. _Twice_.”

            “Well—that was a mistake. And mistakes can be forgiven, can’t they?”

            She smiles at that. Lavinia bites her lip, and says, “I don’t want to be my family.”

            “Nor I,” I say. I take a deep breath. “Now—I don’t know about you, but my trousers are getting wet. So how about you and I go inside—through the front door—and we’ll discuss ideas for how you can revive your xiddig?”

            Lavinia looks like she could dance on air. “Yes please.”

            Excellent. My arse is getting cold. I get to my feet, reaching out to close the window. “I suppose I’ll also need to have a chat with Courtney.”

            “Oh no. No, that’s fine.”

            “Trust me, Lavinia,” I say. “One thing I do well is handle bullies. Come on. I suppose I could also rustle up some hot cocoa as well.”

            We walk around to the front of the greenhouse. Lavinia is limping, just a bit, but she looks as happy as I’ve ever seen her. I open the door for her, and she practically skips inside. The wind carries the sounds of the snowfight to me, and I take a look back at Hogwarts, lit with evening light.

            _Be seeing you_. I don’t know what to think about that. But I find that I smile, nonetheless. Closing the door behind me, I say, “Let’s get started.”


End file.
